As Told To Sarah Yahr Tucker

It seemed like a typical kind of day. I was out the door by 6:00 a.m., heading into work for a shift on I-35 West, my daily commute. It was still dark out. A little bit colder that morning, but nothing us Texans aren’t used to.

I was cruising down the tollway, which is separated from the main highway by a barrier. That stretch has a slight hill and turns to the left. You can’t see anything beyond the hill when you’re at the bottom.

As I made my way up, I spotted brake lights about 400 yards ahead. I eased on my brake, and next thing I knew, I was sliding.

I realized, I’m on black ice.

I was driving a 2011 Toyota FJ Cruiser and I had it all beefed up – lift tires, winch bumpers front and back. I had never had any sort of issue like that.

My ABS brakes kicked in. I slowed, but not fast enough. I saw a wall of crashed cars in front of me.

I was in the left-hand lane, so I turned my steering wheel into the center median. I could hear the whole side of my vehicle scraping against it. I managed to slow down enough to just tap the vehicle in front of me.

I looked in my passenger side-view mirror and saw headlights coming in the right lane. But this car couldn’t slow down. It crashed into the wreckage to my right.

That’s when it sunk in: There was going to be a car coming in my lane, and it might not be able to stop.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw headlights. Sparks flying off that center median.

I didn’t know at the time, but it was a fully loaded semi-truck traveling about 60 miles an hour.

I had a split second to think: This is it. This is how it ends. I closed my eyes.

It was the most violent impact I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I had no idea until afterward, but I had slammed into the vehicle in front of me and my SUV did a kind of 360° barrel roll over the median into the northbound lanes, landing wheels down on top of my sheared off roof rack.

Everything stopped. I opened my eyes. All my airbags had deployed. I gently tried moving my arms and legs, and they worked. I couldn’t move my left foot. It was wedged underneath the brake pedal. But I wasn’t in any pain, just very confused and disoriented. I knew I needed to get out of the vehicle.

My door was wedged shut, so I crawled out of the broken window, slipping on the black ice. I realized I had hit a Fort Worth police cruiser, now all smashed up. The driver couldn’t open his door. So, I helped him force it open, got him out of the vehicle, and checked on him. He was fine.

I had no idea how many vehicles and people were involved. I was in so much shock that the only thing I could do was immediately revert back to my training. I was the only first responder there. No ambulances on scene yet, no fire. So, I did what I know how to do – except without any tools. I tried to triage as many people as I could.

I was helping people with lacerations, back and neck issues from the violent impacts. When you’re involved in a mass casualty incident like that, you have to assess which patients will be the most viable and need the most immediate attention. You have greens, yellows, reds, and then blacks – the deceased. Someone who doesn’t have a pulse and isn’t breathing, you can’t necessarily do CPR because you don’t have enough resources. You have to use your best judgment.

Meanwhile, the crashes kept coming. I found out later I was roughly vehicle No. 50 in the pileup; 83 more would follow. I heard them over and over – a crash and then screams from people in their vehicles. Each time a car hit, the entire pileup would move a couple of inches, getting more and more compacted. With that going on, I couldn’t go in there to pull people out. That scene was absolutely unsafe.

It felt like forever, but about 10 minutes later, an ambulance showed up, and I walked over to them. Because I was in my work uniform, they thought I was there on a call.

A couple fire crews came, and a firefighter yelled, “Hey, we need a backboard!” So, I grabbed a backboard from their unit and helped load up a patient. Then I heard somebody screaming, “This patient needs a stretcher!” A woman was having lumbar pain that seemed excruciating. I helped move her from the wreckage and carry her over to the stretcher. I started trying to get as many people as I could out of their cars.

Around this time, one of my supervisors showed up. He thought I was there working. But then he asked me, “Why is your face bleeding? Why do you have blood coming from your nose?” I pointed to my vehicle, and his jaw just dropped. He said, “Okay, you’re done. Go sit in my vehicle over there.”

He put a stop to my helping out, which was probably for the best. Because I actually had a concussion, a bone contusion in my foot, and a severely sprained ankle. The next day, I felt like I had gotten hit by a truck. (I had!) But when you have so much adrenaline pumping, you don’t feel pain or emotion. You don’t really feel anything.

While I was sitting in that vehicle, I called my mom to let her know I was okay. My parents were watching the news, and there was an aerial view of the accident. It was massive – a giant pile of metal stretching 200 or 300 yards. Six people had perished, more than 60 were hurt.

That night, our public information officer reached out to me about doing an interview with NBC. So, I told my story about what happened. Because of the concussion, a lot of it was a blur.

A day later, I got a call on my cell phone and someone said, “This is Tyler from Toyota. We saw the NBC interview. We wanted to let you know, don’t worry about getting a new vehicle. Just tell us what color 4Runner you want.”

My first thought was: Okay, this can’t be real. This doesn’t happen to people like me. But it turned out that it was, and they put me in a brand new vehicle.

Toyota started sending me to events like NASCAR races, putting me up in VIP suites. It was a cool experience. But it’s just surface stuff – it’s never going to erase what happened. The experience left a mark. It took me 6 months to a year to get rid of that feeling of the impact. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the whole scenario would replay in my head.

In EMS, we have a saying: “Every patient is practice for the next one.” That pileup – you can’t train for something like that. We all learned from it, so we can better prepare if anything like that happens again.

Since then, I’ve seen people die in motor vehicle collisions from a lot less than what happened to me. I’m not religious or spiritual, but I believe there must be a reason why I’m still here.

Now I see patients in traffic accidents who are very distraught even though they’re going to be okay. I tell them, “I’m sorry this happened to you. But remember, this is not the end. You are alive. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t change while you’re with me.”
 

Trey McDaniel is a paramedic with MedStar Mobile Healthcare in Fort Worth, Tex.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It seemed like a typical kind of day. I was out the door by 6:00 a.m., heading into work for a shift on I-35 West, my daily commute. It was still dark out. A little bit colder that morning, but nothing us Texans aren’t used to.

I was cruising down the tollway, which is separated from the main highway by a barrier. That stretch has a slight hill and turns to the left. You can’t see anything beyond the hill when you’re at the bottom.

As I made my way up, I spotted brake lights about 400 yards ahead. I eased on my brake, and next thing I knew, I was sliding.

I realized, I’m on black ice.

I was driving a 2011 Toyota FJ Cruiser and I had it all beefed up – lift tires, winch bumpers front and back. I had never had any sort of issue like that.

My ABS brakes kicked in. I slowed, but not fast enough. I saw a wall of crashed cars in front of me.

I was in the left-hand lane, so I turned my steering wheel into the center median. I could hear the whole side of my vehicle scraping against it. I managed to slow down enough to just tap the vehicle in front of me.

I looked in my passenger side-view mirror and saw headlights coming in the right lane. But this car couldn’t slow down. It crashed into the wreckage to my right.

That’s when it sunk in: There was going to be a car coming in my lane, and it might not be able to stop.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw headlights. Sparks flying off that center median.

I didn’t know at the time, but it was a fully loaded semi-truck traveling about 60 miles an hour.

I had a split second to think: This is it. This is how it ends. I closed my eyes.

It was the most violent impact I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I had no idea until afterward, but I had slammed into the vehicle in front of me and my SUV did a kind of 360° barrel roll over the median into the northbound lanes, landing wheels down on top of my sheared off roof rack.

Everything stopped. I opened my eyes. All my airbags had deployed. I gently tried moving my arms and legs, and they worked. I couldn’t move my left foot. It was wedged underneath the brake pedal. But I wasn’t in any pain, just very confused and disoriented. I knew I needed to get out of the vehicle.

My door was wedged shut, so I crawled out of the broken window, slipping on the black ice. I realized I had hit a Fort Worth police cruiser, now all smashed up. The driver couldn’t open his door. So, I helped him force it open, got him out of the vehicle, and checked on him. He was fine.

I had no idea how many vehicles and people were involved. I was in so much shock that the only thing I could do was immediately revert back to my training. I was the only first responder there. No ambulances on scene yet, no fire. So, I did what I know how to do – except without any tools. I tried to triage as many people as I could.

I was helping people with lacerations, back and neck issues from the violent impacts. When you’re involved in a mass casualty incident like that, you have to assess which patients will be the most viable and need the most immediate attention. You have greens, yellows, reds, and then blacks – the deceased. Someone who doesn’t have a pulse and isn’t breathing, you can’t necessarily do CPR because you don’t have enough resources. You have to use your best judgment.

Meanwhile, the crashes kept coming. I found out later I was roughly vehicle No. 50 in the pileup; 83 more would follow. I heard them over and over – a crash and then screams from people in their vehicles. Each time a car hit, the entire pileup would move a couple of inches, getting more and more compacted. With that going on, I couldn’t go in there to pull people out. That scene was absolutely unsafe.

It felt like forever, but about 10 minutes later, an ambulance showed up, and I walked over to them. Because I was in my work uniform, they thought I was there on a call.

A couple fire crews came, and a firefighter yelled, “Hey, we need a backboard!” So, I grabbed a backboard from their unit and helped load up a patient. Then I heard somebody screaming, “This patient needs a stretcher!” A woman was having lumbar pain that seemed excruciating. I helped move her from the wreckage and carry her over to the stretcher. I started trying to get as many people as I could out of their cars.

Around this time, one of my supervisors showed up. He thought I was there working. But then he asked me, “Why is your face bleeding? Why do you have blood coming from your nose?” I pointed to my vehicle, and his jaw just dropped. He said, “Okay, you’re done. Go sit in my vehicle over there.”

He put a stop to my helping out, which was probably for the best. Because I actually had a concussion, a bone contusion in my foot, and a severely sprained ankle. The next day, I felt like I had gotten hit by a truck. (I had!) But when you have so much adrenaline pumping, you don’t feel pain or emotion. You don’t really feel anything.

While I was sitting in that vehicle, I called my mom to let her know I was okay. My parents were watching the news, and there was an aerial view of the accident. It was massive – a giant pile of metal stretching 200 or 300 yards. Six people had perished, more than 60 were hurt.

That night, our public information officer reached out to me about doing an interview with NBC. So, I told my story about what happened. Because of the concussion, a lot of it was a blur.

A day later, I got a call on my cell phone and someone said, “This is Tyler from Toyota. We saw the NBC interview. We wanted to let you know, don’t worry about getting a new vehicle. Just tell us what color 4Runner you want.”

My first thought was: Okay, this can’t be real. This doesn’t happen to people like me. But it turned out that it was, and they put me in a brand new vehicle.

Toyota started sending me to events like NASCAR races, putting me up in VIP suites. It was a cool experience. But it’s just surface stuff – it’s never going to erase what happened. The experience left a mark. It took me 6 months to a year to get rid of that feeling of the impact. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the whole scenario would replay in my head.

In EMS, we have a saying: “Every patient is practice for the next one.” That pileup – you can’t train for something like that. We all learned from it, so we can better prepare if anything like that happens again.

Since then, I’ve seen people die in motor vehicle collisions from a lot less than what happened to me. I’m not religious or spiritual, but I believe there must be a reason why I’m still here.

Now I see patients in traffic accidents who are very distraught even though they’re going to be okay. I tell them, “I’m sorry this happened to you. But remember, this is not the end. You are alive. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t change while you’re with me.”
 

Trey McDaniel is a paramedic with MedStar Mobile Healthcare in Fort Worth, Tex.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It seemed like a typical kind of day. I was out the door by 6:00 a.m., heading into work for a shift on I-35 West, my daily commute. It was still dark out. A little bit colder that morning, but nothing us Texans aren’t used to.

I was cruising down the tollway, which is separated from the main highway by a barrier. That stretch has a slight hill and turns to the left. You can’t see anything beyond the hill when you’re at the bottom.

As I made my way up, I spotted brake lights about 400 yards ahead. I eased on my brake, and next thing I knew, I was sliding.

I realized, I’m on black ice.

I was driving a 2011 Toyota FJ Cruiser and I had it all beefed up – lift tires, winch bumpers front and back. I had never had any sort of issue like that.

My ABS brakes kicked in. I slowed, but not fast enough. I saw a wall of crashed cars in front of me.

I was in the left-hand lane, so I turned my steering wheel into the center median. I could hear the whole side of my vehicle scraping against it. I managed to slow down enough to just tap the vehicle in front of me.

I looked in my passenger side-view mirror and saw headlights coming in the right lane. But this car couldn’t slow down. It crashed into the wreckage to my right.

That’s when it sunk in: There was going to be a car coming in my lane, and it might not be able to stop.

I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw headlights. Sparks flying off that center median.

I didn’t know at the time, but it was a fully loaded semi-truck traveling about 60 miles an hour.

I had a split second to think: This is it. This is how it ends. I closed my eyes.

It was the most violent impact I’ve ever experienced in my life.

I had no idea until afterward, but I had slammed into the vehicle in front of me and my SUV did a kind of 360° barrel roll over the median into the northbound lanes, landing wheels down on top of my sheared off roof rack.

Everything stopped. I opened my eyes. All my airbags had deployed. I gently tried moving my arms and legs, and they worked. I couldn’t move my left foot. It was wedged underneath the brake pedal. But I wasn’t in any pain, just very confused and disoriented. I knew I needed to get out of the vehicle.

My door was wedged shut, so I crawled out of the broken window, slipping on the black ice. I realized I had hit a Fort Worth police cruiser, now all smashed up. The driver couldn’t open his door. So, I helped him force it open, got him out of the vehicle, and checked on him. He was fine.

I had no idea how many vehicles and people were involved. I was in so much shock that the only thing I could do was immediately revert back to my training. I was the only first responder there. No ambulances on scene yet, no fire. So, I did what I know how to do – except without any tools. I tried to triage as many people as I could.

I was helping people with lacerations, back and neck issues from the violent impacts. When you’re involved in a mass casualty incident like that, you have to assess which patients will be the most viable and need the most immediate attention. You have greens, yellows, reds, and then blacks – the deceased. Someone who doesn’t have a pulse and isn’t breathing, you can’t necessarily do CPR because you don’t have enough resources. You have to use your best judgment.

Meanwhile, the crashes kept coming. I found out later I was roughly vehicle No. 50 in the pileup; 83 more would follow. I heard them over and over – a crash and then screams from people in their vehicles. Each time a car hit, the entire pileup would move a couple of inches, getting more and more compacted. With that going on, I couldn’t go in there to pull people out. That scene was absolutely unsafe.

It felt like forever, but about 10 minutes later, an ambulance showed up, and I walked over to them. Because I was in my work uniform, they thought I was there on a call.

A couple fire crews came, and a firefighter yelled, “Hey, we need a backboard!” So, I grabbed a backboard from their unit and helped load up a patient. Then I heard somebody screaming, “This patient needs a stretcher!” A woman was having lumbar pain that seemed excruciating. I helped move her from the wreckage and carry her over to the stretcher. I started trying to get as many people as I could out of their cars.

Around this time, one of my supervisors showed up. He thought I was there working. But then he asked me, “Why is your face bleeding? Why do you have blood coming from your nose?” I pointed to my vehicle, and his jaw just dropped. He said, “Okay, you’re done. Go sit in my vehicle over there.”

He put a stop to my helping out, which was probably for the best. Because I actually had a concussion, a bone contusion in my foot, and a severely sprained ankle. The next day, I felt like I had gotten hit by a truck. (I had!) But when you have so much adrenaline pumping, you don’t feel pain or emotion. You don’t really feel anything.

While I was sitting in that vehicle, I called my mom to let her know I was okay. My parents were watching the news, and there was an aerial view of the accident. It was massive – a giant pile of metal stretching 200 or 300 yards. Six people had perished, more than 60 were hurt.

That night, our public information officer reached out to me about doing an interview with NBC. So, I told my story about what happened. Because of the concussion, a lot of it was a blur.

A day later, I got a call on my cell phone and someone said, “This is Tyler from Toyota. We saw the NBC interview. We wanted to let you know, don’t worry about getting a new vehicle. Just tell us what color 4Runner you want.”

My first thought was: Okay, this can’t be real. This doesn’t happen to people like me. But it turned out that it was, and they put me in a brand new vehicle.

Toyota started sending me to events like NASCAR races, putting me up in VIP suites. It was a cool experience. But it’s just surface stuff – it’s never going to erase what happened. The experience left a mark. It took me 6 months to a year to get rid of that feeling of the impact. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the whole scenario would replay in my head.

In EMS, we have a saying: “Every patient is practice for the next one.” That pileup – you can’t train for something like that. We all learned from it, so we can better prepare if anything like that happens again.

Since then, I’ve seen people die in motor vehicle collisions from a lot less than what happened to me. I’m not religious or spiritual, but I believe there must be a reason why I’m still here.

Now I see patients in traffic accidents who are very distraught even though they’re going to be okay. I tell them, “I’m sorry this happened to you. But remember, this is not the end. You are alive. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t change while you’re with me.”
 

Trey McDaniel is a paramedic with MedStar Mobile Healthcare in Fort Worth, Tex.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It was one of those dog days of August where the humidity is palpable and the pressure is so hot and thick you can almost feel the ions in the air. At the time (2022), I was a White House fellow and senior adviser in the West Wing Office of Public Engagement and in the Office of the Vice President.

I was leaving the White House around 7:00 p.m. through the front gate on Lafayette Square. I had a dinner reservation with a friend, so I was in a rush. It was super overcast. Lo and behold, three steps after I closed the gate behind me, it started pouring. Rain came down so hard I had to take shelter.

There’s a stone building in front of the White House with archways, so I took cover underneath one of them, hoping that in a couple of minutes the rain would pass. Behind the archways are these thick, black, iron gates.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, I heard: BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off. In one moment, I saw the lightning bolt, heard the thunder, and felt the heat. It was all one rush of sensation. I couldn’t remember having been that scared in a long time.

I thought, “I definitely have to get out of here. In a couple of minutes there might be another strike, and I’m sitting next to iron gates!” I saw a little bit of a window in the downpour, so I started booking it. I knew there was a sheltered Secret Service area around the corner where they park their cars. A much safer place to be.

I was sprinting on the sidewalk and spotted a bunch of Secret Service agents on their bikes riding in the opposite direction, back toward the park. I knew they wouldn’t be out on bikes in this mess without a reason. As they reached me, one agent said, “Clear the sidewalk! We’re coming through with a bunch of equipment.”

I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Four people were just struck by lightning,” he said as he zoomed past.

I thought: “Sh*t. I have to go back.”

It was like two different parts of my brain were active at the exact same time. My subcortical brain at the level of the amygdala was like: “You just ran from there, idiot. Why are you running back?” And another part of my brain was like: “This is who you are.”

The lightning had struck one of the largest trees in the park. Four bodies splayed out in one direction from the tree. They’d been taking shelter underneath it when they were hit and were blown off to one side. By the time I got there, two Secret Service agents were on the scene doing CPR. Some bystanders had started to run over.

I did a quick round of pulse checks to see everyone’s status, and all four were apneic and pulseless. I told the two Secret Service agents to keep doing compressions on the first person. Two bystanders also began compressions on another person, an older man.

More Secret Service agents arrived, and I said, “We need to do compressions on this other person right now.” One of the agents took a moment to question who I could be and why I was there. I said, “I’m a doctor. I know I’m not dressed like one, but I’m a physician.”

I told some agents to go find an AED, because these people needed to be shocked.

After they left, I was effectively trying to triage which of these four people would get the AED first. Initially, I spent more of my time on the young man, and we began to get some response from him. I then spent some time with the young woman.

It turned out there were AEDs in the pouches on the Secret Service bikes, but they were very small, dinky AEDs. We tried to apply the pads, but it was downpouring so much that the adhesive wouldn’t stick. I told one of the agents we needed a towel.

Through all this I was concerned we were going to be struck again. I mean, the metal statue of Lafayette was right there! They say lighting doesn’t strike in the same place twice, but who knows if that’s really true?

The towel arrived, and we were able to get the chests of the younger people dry enough for the AED pads. We applied two shocks first to the woman, then the young man. We got his pulse back quickly. The woman’s came back as well, but it felt much weaker.

EMS arrived shortly thereafter. We got all four patients on the transport, and they were transferred to the hospital.

The whole experience had taken 14 minutes.

At the time, I felt confident that the young man was going to survive. We’re taught that lightning bolt strikes are survivable if you can shock someone quickly. He also got pretty good CPR. But the next day I was watching the news and learned that he had passed away. So, of course I was thinking the worst about the others as well.

But a week and a half later, I learned that the young woman had been discharged from the ICU. She was the only one who made it. Her name is Amber, and we got connected through a reporter. About 2 weeks later, I invited her to the White House. I took her to the Oval Office. I met her mom and dad and husband, and we had dinner. We’ve been in touch ever since.

I remember the first time we talked on the phone, Amber said something along the lines of, “This sucks. Obviously, I was not planning for any of this to happen. But I also think there’s something good that could come from this.”

I was so surprised and happy to hear her say that. I had something similar happen to me when I was a teenager – caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to intervene in a gang fight in my neighborhood. I thought a kid was going to get killed, so I jumped in, imagining I could save the day. I didn’t. They broke a bunch of my bones and I was in the hospital for a bit.

I remember thinking then that my life was over. But after some time, I found a new perspective, which was: Maybe that life is over. But maybe this could be the beginning of a new one. And maybe those things that I’ve been afraid of doing, the dreams that I have, maybe now I’m actually free to go after them.

I told Amber, if there are things that you have been waiting to do, this could be the time. She wants to be an international human rights activist, and she is kicking butt in a graduate school program to begin on that pathway. It’s been really cool to watch her chase this dream with way more vigor than she had before.

I think we bonded because we’ve gone through – obviously not the same thing, but a similar moment of being confronted with your own mortality. Realizing that life can just shatter. And so, while we’re here, we might as well go for it with all the force of a person who knows this could all disappear in an instant.

It was an extremely humbling moment. It reaffirmed that my life is not about me. I have to use the time that I’ve got on behalf of other people as much as I can. What is my life about if not being useful?

Dr. Martin is an emergency medicine physician and faculty member at the MGH Center for Social Justice and Health Equity at Harvard Medical School, Boston.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It was one of those dog days of August where the humidity is palpable and the pressure is so hot and thick you can almost feel the ions in the air. At the time (2022), I was a White House fellow and senior adviser in the West Wing Office of Public Engagement and in the Office of the Vice President.

I was leaving the White House around 7:00 p.m. through the front gate on Lafayette Square. I had a dinner reservation with a friend, so I was in a rush. It was super overcast. Lo and behold, three steps after I closed the gate behind me, it started pouring. Rain came down so hard I had to take shelter.

There’s a stone building in front of the White House with archways, so I took cover underneath one of them, hoping that in a couple of minutes the rain would pass. Behind the archways are these thick, black, iron gates.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, I heard: BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off. In one moment, I saw the lightning bolt, heard the thunder, and felt the heat. It was all one rush of sensation. I couldn’t remember having been that scared in a long time.

I thought, “I definitely have to get out of here. In a couple of minutes there might be another strike, and I’m sitting next to iron gates!” I saw a little bit of a window in the downpour, so I started booking it. I knew there was a sheltered Secret Service area around the corner where they park their cars. A much safer place to be.

I was sprinting on the sidewalk and spotted a bunch of Secret Service agents on their bikes riding in the opposite direction, back toward the park. I knew they wouldn’t be out on bikes in this mess without a reason. As they reached me, one agent said, “Clear the sidewalk! We’re coming through with a bunch of equipment.”

I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Four people were just struck by lightning,” he said as he zoomed past.

I thought: “Sh*t. I have to go back.”

It was like two different parts of my brain were active at the exact same time. My subcortical brain at the level of the amygdala was like: “You just ran from there, idiot. Why are you running back?” And another part of my brain was like: “This is who you are.”

The lightning had struck one of the largest trees in the park. Four bodies splayed out in one direction from the tree. They’d been taking shelter underneath it when they were hit and were blown off to one side. By the time I got there, two Secret Service agents were on the scene doing CPR. Some bystanders had started to run over.

I did a quick round of pulse checks to see everyone’s status, and all four were apneic and pulseless. I told the two Secret Service agents to keep doing compressions on the first person. Two bystanders also began compressions on another person, an older man.

More Secret Service agents arrived, and I said, “We need to do compressions on this other person right now.” One of the agents took a moment to question who I could be and why I was there. I said, “I’m a doctor. I know I’m not dressed like one, but I’m a physician.”

I told some agents to go find an AED, because these people needed to be shocked.

After they left, I was effectively trying to triage which of these four people would get the AED first. Initially, I spent more of my time on the young man, and we began to get some response from him. I then spent some time with the young woman.

It turned out there were AEDs in the pouches on the Secret Service bikes, but they were very small, dinky AEDs. We tried to apply the pads, but it was downpouring so much that the adhesive wouldn’t stick. I told one of the agents we needed a towel.

Through all this I was concerned we were going to be struck again. I mean, the metal statue of Lafayette was right there! They say lighting doesn’t strike in the same place twice, but who knows if that’s really true?

The towel arrived, and we were able to get the chests of the younger people dry enough for the AED pads. We applied two shocks first to the woman, then the young man. We got his pulse back quickly. The woman’s came back as well, but it felt much weaker.

EMS arrived shortly thereafter. We got all four patients on the transport, and they were transferred to the hospital.

The whole experience had taken 14 minutes.

At the time, I felt confident that the young man was going to survive. We’re taught that lightning bolt strikes are survivable if you can shock someone quickly. He also got pretty good CPR. But the next day I was watching the news and learned that he had passed away. So, of course I was thinking the worst about the others as well.

But a week and a half later, I learned that the young woman had been discharged from the ICU. She was the only one who made it. Her name is Amber, and we got connected through a reporter. About 2 weeks later, I invited her to the White House. I took her to the Oval Office. I met her mom and dad and husband, and we had dinner. We’ve been in touch ever since.

I remember the first time we talked on the phone, Amber said something along the lines of, “This sucks. Obviously, I was not planning for any of this to happen. But I also think there’s something good that could come from this.”

I was so surprised and happy to hear her say that. I had something similar happen to me when I was a teenager – caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to intervene in a gang fight in my neighborhood. I thought a kid was going to get killed, so I jumped in, imagining I could save the day. I didn’t. They broke a bunch of my bones and I was in the hospital for a bit.

I remember thinking then that my life was over. But after some time, I found a new perspective, which was: Maybe that life is over. But maybe this could be the beginning of a new one. And maybe those things that I’ve been afraid of doing, the dreams that I have, maybe now I’m actually free to go after them.

I told Amber, if there are things that you have been waiting to do, this could be the time. She wants to be an international human rights activist, and she is kicking butt in a graduate school program to begin on that pathway. It’s been really cool to watch her chase this dream with way more vigor than she had before.

I think we bonded because we’ve gone through – obviously not the same thing, but a similar moment of being confronted with your own mortality. Realizing that life can just shatter. And so, while we’re here, we might as well go for it with all the force of a person who knows this could all disappear in an instant.

It was an extremely humbling moment. It reaffirmed that my life is not about me. I have to use the time that I’ve got on behalf of other people as much as I can. What is my life about if not being useful?

Dr. Martin is an emergency medicine physician and faculty member at the MGH Center for Social Justice and Health Equity at Harvard Medical School, Boston.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It was one of those dog days of August where the humidity is palpable and the pressure is so hot and thick you can almost feel the ions in the air. At the time (2022), I was a White House fellow and senior adviser in the West Wing Office of Public Engagement and in the Office of the Vice President.

I was leaving the White House around 7:00 p.m. through the front gate on Lafayette Square. I had a dinner reservation with a friend, so I was in a rush. It was super overcast. Lo and behold, three steps after I closed the gate behind me, it started pouring. Rain came down so hard I had to take shelter.

There’s a stone building in front of the White House with archways, so I took cover underneath one of them, hoping that in a couple of minutes the rain would pass. Behind the archways are these thick, black, iron gates.

Just as I was about to make a run for it, I heard: BOOM!

It was like a bomb had gone off. In one moment, I saw the lightning bolt, heard the thunder, and felt the heat. It was all one rush of sensation. I couldn’t remember having been that scared in a long time.

I thought, “I definitely have to get out of here. In a couple of minutes there might be another strike, and I’m sitting next to iron gates!” I saw a little bit of a window in the downpour, so I started booking it. I knew there was a sheltered Secret Service area around the corner where they park their cars. A much safer place to be.

I was sprinting on the sidewalk and spotted a bunch of Secret Service agents on their bikes riding in the opposite direction, back toward the park. I knew they wouldn’t be out on bikes in this mess without a reason. As they reached me, one agent said, “Clear the sidewalk! We’re coming through with a bunch of equipment.”

I yelled, “What’s going on?”

“Four people were just struck by lightning,” he said as he zoomed past.

I thought: “Sh*t. I have to go back.”

It was like two different parts of my brain were active at the exact same time. My subcortical brain at the level of the amygdala was like: “You just ran from there, idiot. Why are you running back?” And another part of my brain was like: “This is who you are.”

The lightning had struck one of the largest trees in the park. Four bodies splayed out in one direction from the tree. They’d been taking shelter underneath it when they were hit and were blown off to one side. By the time I got there, two Secret Service agents were on the scene doing CPR. Some bystanders had started to run over.

I did a quick round of pulse checks to see everyone’s status, and all four were apneic and pulseless. I told the two Secret Service agents to keep doing compressions on the first person. Two bystanders also began compressions on another person, an older man.

More Secret Service agents arrived, and I said, “We need to do compressions on this other person right now.” One of the agents took a moment to question who I could be and why I was there. I said, “I’m a doctor. I know I’m not dressed like one, but I’m a physician.”

I told some agents to go find an AED, because these people needed to be shocked.

After they left, I was effectively trying to triage which of these four people would get the AED first. Initially, I spent more of my time on the young man, and we began to get some response from him. I then spent some time with the young woman.

It turned out there were AEDs in the pouches on the Secret Service bikes, but they were very small, dinky AEDs. We tried to apply the pads, but it was downpouring so much that the adhesive wouldn’t stick. I told one of the agents we needed a towel.

Through all this I was concerned we were going to be struck again. I mean, the metal statue of Lafayette was right there! They say lighting doesn’t strike in the same place twice, but who knows if that’s really true?

The towel arrived, and we were able to get the chests of the younger people dry enough for the AED pads. We applied two shocks first to the woman, then the young man. We got his pulse back quickly. The woman’s came back as well, but it felt much weaker.

EMS arrived shortly thereafter. We got all four patients on the transport, and they were transferred to the hospital.

The whole experience had taken 14 minutes.

At the time, I felt confident that the young man was going to survive. We’re taught that lightning bolt strikes are survivable if you can shock someone quickly. He also got pretty good CPR. But the next day I was watching the news and learned that he had passed away. So, of course I was thinking the worst about the others as well.

But a week and a half later, I learned that the young woman had been discharged from the ICU. She was the only one who made it. Her name is Amber, and we got connected through a reporter. About 2 weeks later, I invited her to the White House. I took her to the Oval Office. I met her mom and dad and husband, and we had dinner. We’ve been in touch ever since.

I remember the first time we talked on the phone, Amber said something along the lines of, “This sucks. Obviously, I was not planning for any of this to happen. But I also think there’s something good that could come from this.”

I was so surprised and happy to hear her say that. I had something similar happen to me when I was a teenager – caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I tried to intervene in a gang fight in my neighborhood. I thought a kid was going to get killed, so I jumped in, imagining I could save the day. I didn’t. They broke a bunch of my bones and I was in the hospital for a bit.

I remember thinking then that my life was over. But after some time, I found a new perspective, which was: Maybe that life is over. But maybe this could be the beginning of a new one. And maybe those things that I’ve been afraid of doing, the dreams that I have, maybe now I’m actually free to go after them.

I told Amber, if there are things that you have been waiting to do, this could be the time. She wants to be an international human rights activist, and she is kicking butt in a graduate school program to begin on that pathway. It’s been really cool to watch her chase this dream with way more vigor than she had before.

I think we bonded because we’ve gone through – obviously not the same thing, but a similar moment of being confronted with your own mortality. Realizing that life can just shatter. And so, while we’re here, we might as well go for it with all the force of a person who knows this could all disappear in an instant.

It was an extremely humbling moment. It reaffirmed that my life is not about me. I have to use the time that I’ve got on behalf of other people as much as I can. What is my life about if not being useful?

Dr. Martin is an emergency medicine physician and faculty member at the MGH Center for Social Justice and Health Equity at Harvard Medical School, Boston.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was Saturday night, and we had just gone to bed. Suddenly, Ali sat up, and screamed, “My head!” She then became nonresponsive and had a seizure. I was in disbelief, but I also knew exactly what was happening. I called 911: “My wife is having a head bleed. I need an ambulance.” It was a bad connection, and they could barely understand me.

As I tried to carry Ali downstairs, she vomited. She still had rubber bands in her mouth from the jaw fracture that was a result of her accident just a month ago. I knew she needed an airway. 

I grabbed a tracheostomy tube, but the opening over her trachea put in for the accident had since closed. I tried to push the tube through her neck, but it hurt her; her eyes opened.

I thought to myself: Maybe she doesn’t need it. This can wait until she gets to the hospital. I can’t do this to her. But she vomited again, and I knew what I had to do.

We were at the top of our stairs. I didn’t have a blade or any other equipment, just the tracheostomy tube with the dilator. I pushed hard, and she started fighting me. I had to hold her hands away with one arm. The tube popped in and she stared back at me in pain and fear.

I finally got her downstairs and called medical control at University Hospital of Cincinnati. I was able to speak with one of the attendings: “Ali’s aneurysm ruptured, and she just had a seizure. She has a GCS of 11 or 12. I replaced her tracheostomy tube. We’ll be there shortly.”

When I heard sirens come down our street, I carried Ali outside, but the sirens were from a firetruck. They likely assumed someone had fallen and had a head laceration. It was beyond deflating. I yelled incredulously: “We need an ambulance here now!”

When the ambulance finally arrived, they tried to tell me that I could not ride with them. Or if I did, I would have to sit up front. After arguing back and forth for a few seconds, I finally demanded: “This is medical control. This is MD-88, and this is my patient. I’m sitting in back with you. She needs four Zofran and two midazolam IV now.”
 

One month earlier ...

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor and I were both 4 months into our second year of residency, and we had been married for 5 months. I was a pediatric resident at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. She was an emergency medicine resident at the University Hospital. I was having my first day off in a couple weeks, and she was working a shift in the emergency department. She was also a part of the flight crew that day. Second-year residents would go out to the scenes of accidents or to other hospitals to transport the patient back to their Level I trauma center via helicopter. The resident was the physician and considered the leader on these flights.

That afternoon, I went for a bicycle ride. About three-quarters of the way through my ride, I was struck by a car.

The EMS crew got to me fairly quickly. They intubated me at the scene and got me to the closest hospital. Immediately, the hospital realized my case was outside the scope of their care. They contacted University Hospital requesting that their flight crew come to transport me.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: At around 5:30 p.m. the day of my shift, the tones went out on the radio: “AirCare 1 and Pod Doc, you are requested for interhospital transfer, 27-year-old Jane Doe, GCS 5.” That was the only information given.

When we landed at the hospital, I walked in with my nurse. I was listening to the doctor’s report and doing my once over. The patient was a little bit bradycardic, heart rate in the 40s or 50s. Blood pressure was normal if not a little bit elevated. There was obvious facial trauma. The endotracheal tube in place.

She was covered with a blanket, but some of her clothing was visible. Suddenly, I recognized it. It was our cycling team’s kit. I thought, please don’t let it be Ali. I looked at her face and realized that this was Alison.

I said: “That’s my wife.” Everyone stopped and looked at me. The room went silent.

My flight nurse went out and called back to dispatch. “This is my doc’s wife. Dispatch the second helicopter!” She had to repeat herself a few times before they understood what was happening.

As Ali’s spouse, I couldn’t be the flight doctor. I didn’t care. I called medical control myself and told them: “This is Ali. We have to fly her. She has a head injury.” They said: “You can’t fly her.” I said: “We can’t delay her care. I have to fly her.” They said: “No, you can’t fly her.” I broke down. Devastated.

I went back into the room and looked at Ali. Her heart rate was dropping. My flight nurse was in the trauma bay with the emergency physician. We realized definitive care was being delayed because of my presence, which was an awful feeling to have. I think at that point we realized, you do nothing, or you act. So, we acted.

I told my flight nurse: “Let’s give her atropine to increase her heart rate.” I asked about sedation, and she hadn’t had anything. I spurted off some doses: “a hundred of fentanyl and five of midazolam.” My flight nurse actually administered smaller doses. She thought it was a bit aggressive, and she was correct. I was trying to maintain composure, but it was hard.

The emergency medicine physician volunteered to fly with her, so I called back medical control in desperation: “This doctor’s willing to fly. Let him take her.”

They told me apologetically, knowing my agony, that he was not trained to fly and therefore could not do so. I sat down in the ambulance bay crying, waiting for the second helicopter to arrive.

When we got Ali onto AirCare 2, my nurse then told me I couldn’t fly with her. I said, “I’m flying with her.” She said, “no, it’s not safe.” I said, “I’m not leaving her. I’ll sit in the front. What do you think I’m going to do? Jump out of the helicopter?” I think they realized there was no other option that I would agree to. I rode up front.

It was the fastest flight to the trauma center that I had ever experienced. They did a hot offload, meaning they didn’t even shut down the blades. We got her to the trauma center. And then it was a whole other layer of chaos.

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor’s presence may have delayed my transfer, but the University emergency department was prepped and waiting for me. Radiology was on hold, surgery and neurosurgery were there waiting. Everyone was in the trauma bay.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: My younger sister was a social worker in that emergency department, and she was on shift. She and my residency director went to CT with Ali. As the images from Ali’s CT scan showed up on the screens, everyone in the room gasped. She had a nonsurvivable head injury.

The AirCare 2 doctor collapsed into our director’s arms and cried: “She’s going to die tonight.” He responded: “I know. But we’ve got work to do.” Then he asked my sister how close she was with me. She told him we were extremely close. “Good, because we have to break the news that she’s going to die tonight.”

But the doctor never told me. I was in the consultation room. He came in and told me that she had a lot of bleeding around the brain, but he couldn’t find the words to tell me the true severity. He didn’t have to.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was in a coma for 5 days. Shift by shift, they were amazed that I was still there. I had a broken jaw, broken vertebrae in my spine, a broken clavicle and sternum and contusions to my heart and lungs. I was later found to have a dissection of my carotid artery as well as an aneurysm to the carotid artery. These were both caused by the accident.

My jaw was wired shut and a tracheostomy was placed. They coiled the aneurysm and put a stent in the dissection. I was placed on dual antiplatelet therapy to prevent stent thrombosis.

When I initially woke from the coma during my hospital stay, I could not speak, but I remember being told why I was there. My first two thoughts were: Was it my fault? and I need to get back to work.

Two and a half weeks later, I was stable enough to go to an in-patient rehab facility.

I was very motivated. I made a lot of good progress, because Taylor was there with me. We looked through pictures, trying to jog my memory and help with my vocabulary. I’d look at a bird and know this is a flying animal but couldn’t think of the word bird. I couldn’t remember my mom’s name.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: She was becoming more fluent with her speech each day. Her right arm was working more normally. We started going on walks outside. Within 14 days she was discharged home.

When we left the rehab facility, I took a couple extra tracheostomy tubes and supplies, because I didn’t know how long Ali would have her trach. The emergency medicine person in me just thought, always have these things on hand.

A few days later, her ENT doctor decannulated her tracheostomy tube. In our minds, we were done.

The next night, she had the intracranial hemorrhage.
 

Return to the hospital ...

Dr. Taylor Delgado: The aneurysm they had coiled had ruptured. Ali had a recurrent subarachnoid hemorrhage and an intracranial hemorrhage, and she was still bleeding. So, they took her to IR to try to embolize it and accomplished as much as they possibly could.

She had hydrocephalus, the ventricles in her brain were enlarged. Normally, they would put in a drain, but they couldn’t because she was on aspirin and Plavix (clopidogrel). That would risk her having a bleed around that insertion site, which would cause a brain hemorrhage.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was like a ticking time bomb. We knew I would have to have surgery as soon as possible to open my skull and clip the aneurysm. But I had to be on the Plavix and aspirin for at least 6 weeks before it would be considered safe to discontinue them. It was another 3 weeks before they could proceed with the surgery.

The second hospitalization was scarier than the first, because I was much more aware. I knew that I might not be able to return to my residency and do the thing I had dreamed of doing. There were risks of me becoming blind or paralyzed during the surgery. I might not even leave the hospital.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was mid-December by then, and my dad asked her, “Ali, what do you want for Christmas?” She looked at him deadpan and said, “normal brain.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: The surgery was successful. I went home a few days later. But I’d lost everything I had gained in rehabilitation. My speech was back to square one.

None of the doctors really expected me to go back to work. But from my standpoint, I thought, I could have died the day I was hit. I could have died when the aneurysm ruptured, or at any point along the way. But I’m here and I’m going back to work.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: In January, I went back to work and I had to fly on the helicopter. They were worried about how I would react. My flight director flew with me on my first shift. Our first flight was an inter-facility STEMI transfer. No big deal. The second one was a car accident outside of Batesville, Ind. We were in the back of the ambulance, and I looked at this woman. She was 27 years old, thin, with long hair. She looked exactly like Ali.

Ali flashed into my mind, and I was like, nope. Ali’s at home. She’s fine. This person is right here, right now. Do what you do. I intubated her in the helicopter. We gave her hypertonic saline. I started a blood transfusion. Afterward, my flight director came up to me and said: “You’re released back to full duty. That was the hardest test you could possibly have on your first day back flying, and you nailed it.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: I finished my residency in December of 2012 and passed my pediatric board exam on the first try, almost exactly 3 years after my accident.

The spring before I started medical school in 2005, I had won the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon. In 2011, a few months after my accident, they invited us to be the starters of the race. When we stood at the starting line, I decided right then I was going to run this marathon again the next year. In spring 2012, I returned and finished in fourth place, beating my previous winning time by two minutes.

I have a different level of empathy for my patients now. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to not know if you’re going to leave the hospital. I’ve lived that. The process of writing my book was also cathartic for me. I told my story to try to give people hope.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: I have a tattoo on my wrist showing the date of Ali’s accident. The idea was to remind myself of what we’ve come through and everyone who went above and beyond. To show gratitude to them and remember everything that they did for us. It’s also to remember that every patient I see is somebody else’s Alison.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was Saturday night, and we had just gone to bed. Suddenly, Ali sat up, and screamed, “My head!” She then became nonresponsive and had a seizure. I was in disbelief, but I also knew exactly what was happening. I called 911: “My wife is having a head bleed. I need an ambulance.” It was a bad connection, and they could barely understand me.

As I tried to carry Ali downstairs, she vomited. She still had rubber bands in her mouth from the jaw fracture that was a result of her accident just a month ago. I knew she needed an airway. 

I grabbed a tracheostomy tube, but the opening over her trachea put in for the accident had since closed. I tried to push the tube through her neck, but it hurt her; her eyes opened.

I thought to myself: Maybe she doesn’t need it. This can wait until she gets to the hospital. I can’t do this to her. But she vomited again, and I knew what I had to do.

We were at the top of our stairs. I didn’t have a blade or any other equipment, just the tracheostomy tube with the dilator. I pushed hard, and she started fighting me. I had to hold her hands away with one arm. The tube popped in and she stared back at me in pain and fear.

I finally got her downstairs and called medical control at University Hospital of Cincinnati. I was able to speak with one of the attendings: “Ali’s aneurysm ruptured, and she just had a seizure. She has a GCS of 11 or 12. I replaced her tracheostomy tube. We’ll be there shortly.”

When I heard sirens come down our street, I carried Ali outside, but the sirens were from a firetruck. They likely assumed someone had fallen and had a head laceration. It was beyond deflating. I yelled incredulously: “We need an ambulance here now!”

When the ambulance finally arrived, they tried to tell me that I could not ride with them. Or if I did, I would have to sit up front. After arguing back and forth for a few seconds, I finally demanded: “This is medical control. This is MD-88, and this is my patient. I’m sitting in back with you. She needs four Zofran and two midazolam IV now.”
 

One month earlier ...

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor and I were both 4 months into our second year of residency, and we had been married for 5 months. I was a pediatric resident at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. She was an emergency medicine resident at the University Hospital. I was having my first day off in a couple weeks, and she was working a shift in the emergency department. She was also a part of the flight crew that day. Second-year residents would go out to the scenes of accidents or to other hospitals to transport the patient back to their Level I trauma center via helicopter. The resident was the physician and considered the leader on these flights.

That afternoon, I went for a bicycle ride. About three-quarters of the way through my ride, I was struck by a car.

The EMS crew got to me fairly quickly. They intubated me at the scene and got me to the closest hospital. Immediately, the hospital realized my case was outside the scope of their care. They contacted University Hospital requesting that their flight crew come to transport me.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: At around 5:30 p.m. the day of my shift, the tones went out on the radio: “AirCare 1 and Pod Doc, you are requested for interhospital transfer, 27-year-old Jane Doe, GCS 5.” That was the only information given.

When we landed at the hospital, I walked in with my nurse. I was listening to the doctor’s report and doing my once over. The patient was a little bit bradycardic, heart rate in the 40s or 50s. Blood pressure was normal if not a little bit elevated. There was obvious facial trauma. The endotracheal tube in place.

She was covered with a blanket, but some of her clothing was visible. Suddenly, I recognized it. It was our cycling team’s kit. I thought, please don’t let it be Ali. I looked at her face and realized that this was Alison.

I said: “That’s my wife.” Everyone stopped and looked at me. The room went silent.

My flight nurse went out and called back to dispatch. “This is my doc’s wife. Dispatch the second helicopter!” She had to repeat herself a few times before they understood what was happening.

As Ali’s spouse, I couldn’t be the flight doctor. I didn’t care. I called medical control myself and told them: “This is Ali. We have to fly her. She has a head injury.” They said: “You can’t fly her.” I said: “We can’t delay her care. I have to fly her.” They said: “No, you can’t fly her.” I broke down. Devastated.

I went back into the room and looked at Ali. Her heart rate was dropping. My flight nurse was in the trauma bay with the emergency physician. We realized definitive care was being delayed because of my presence, which was an awful feeling to have. I think at that point we realized, you do nothing, or you act. So, we acted.

I told my flight nurse: “Let’s give her atropine to increase her heart rate.” I asked about sedation, and she hadn’t had anything. I spurted off some doses: “a hundred of fentanyl and five of midazolam.” My flight nurse actually administered smaller doses. She thought it was a bit aggressive, and she was correct. I was trying to maintain composure, but it was hard.

The emergency medicine physician volunteered to fly with her, so I called back medical control in desperation: “This doctor’s willing to fly. Let him take her.”

They told me apologetically, knowing my agony, that he was not trained to fly and therefore could not do so. I sat down in the ambulance bay crying, waiting for the second helicopter to arrive.

When we got Ali onto AirCare 2, my nurse then told me I couldn’t fly with her. I said, “I’m flying with her.” She said, “no, it’s not safe.” I said, “I’m not leaving her. I’ll sit in the front. What do you think I’m going to do? Jump out of the helicopter?” I think they realized there was no other option that I would agree to. I rode up front.

It was the fastest flight to the trauma center that I had ever experienced. They did a hot offload, meaning they didn’t even shut down the blades. We got her to the trauma center. And then it was a whole other layer of chaos.

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor’s presence may have delayed my transfer, but the University emergency department was prepped and waiting for me. Radiology was on hold, surgery and neurosurgery were there waiting. Everyone was in the trauma bay.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: My younger sister was a social worker in that emergency department, and she was on shift. She and my residency director went to CT with Ali. As the images from Ali’s CT scan showed up on the screens, everyone in the room gasped. She had a nonsurvivable head injury.

The AirCare 2 doctor collapsed into our director’s arms and cried: “She’s going to die tonight.” He responded: “I know. But we’ve got work to do.” Then he asked my sister how close she was with me. She told him we were extremely close. “Good, because we have to break the news that she’s going to die tonight.”

But the doctor never told me. I was in the consultation room. He came in and told me that she had a lot of bleeding around the brain, but he couldn’t find the words to tell me the true severity. He didn’t have to.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was in a coma for 5 days. Shift by shift, they were amazed that I was still there. I had a broken jaw, broken vertebrae in my spine, a broken clavicle and sternum and contusions to my heart and lungs. I was later found to have a dissection of my carotid artery as well as an aneurysm to the carotid artery. These were both caused by the accident.

My jaw was wired shut and a tracheostomy was placed. They coiled the aneurysm and put a stent in the dissection. I was placed on dual antiplatelet therapy to prevent stent thrombosis.

When I initially woke from the coma during my hospital stay, I could not speak, but I remember being told why I was there. My first two thoughts were: Was it my fault? and I need to get back to work.

Two and a half weeks later, I was stable enough to go to an in-patient rehab facility.

I was very motivated. I made a lot of good progress, because Taylor was there with me. We looked through pictures, trying to jog my memory and help with my vocabulary. I’d look at a bird and know this is a flying animal but couldn’t think of the word bird. I couldn’t remember my mom’s name.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: She was becoming more fluent with her speech each day. Her right arm was working more normally. We started going on walks outside. Within 14 days she was discharged home.

When we left the rehab facility, I took a couple extra tracheostomy tubes and supplies, because I didn’t know how long Ali would have her trach. The emergency medicine person in me just thought, always have these things on hand.

A few days later, her ENT doctor decannulated her tracheostomy tube. In our minds, we were done.

The next night, she had the intracranial hemorrhage.
 

Return to the hospital ...

Dr. Taylor Delgado: The aneurysm they had coiled had ruptured. Ali had a recurrent subarachnoid hemorrhage and an intracranial hemorrhage, and she was still bleeding. So, they took her to IR to try to embolize it and accomplished as much as they possibly could.

She had hydrocephalus, the ventricles in her brain were enlarged. Normally, they would put in a drain, but they couldn’t because she was on aspirin and Plavix (clopidogrel). That would risk her having a bleed around that insertion site, which would cause a brain hemorrhage.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was like a ticking time bomb. We knew I would have to have surgery as soon as possible to open my skull and clip the aneurysm. But I had to be on the Plavix and aspirin for at least 6 weeks before it would be considered safe to discontinue them. It was another 3 weeks before they could proceed with the surgery.

The second hospitalization was scarier than the first, because I was much more aware. I knew that I might not be able to return to my residency and do the thing I had dreamed of doing. There were risks of me becoming blind or paralyzed during the surgery. I might not even leave the hospital.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was mid-December by then, and my dad asked her, “Ali, what do you want for Christmas?” She looked at him deadpan and said, “normal brain.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: The surgery was successful. I went home a few days later. But I’d lost everything I had gained in rehabilitation. My speech was back to square one.

None of the doctors really expected me to go back to work. But from my standpoint, I thought, I could have died the day I was hit. I could have died when the aneurysm ruptured, or at any point along the way. But I’m here and I’m going back to work.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: In January, I went back to work and I had to fly on the helicopter. They were worried about how I would react. My flight director flew with me on my first shift. Our first flight was an inter-facility STEMI transfer. No big deal. The second one was a car accident outside of Batesville, Ind. We were in the back of the ambulance, and I looked at this woman. She was 27 years old, thin, with long hair. She looked exactly like Ali.

Ali flashed into my mind, and I was like, nope. Ali’s at home. She’s fine. This person is right here, right now. Do what you do. I intubated her in the helicopter. We gave her hypertonic saline. I started a blood transfusion. Afterward, my flight director came up to me and said: “You’re released back to full duty. That was the hardest test you could possibly have on your first day back flying, and you nailed it.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: I finished my residency in December of 2012 and passed my pediatric board exam on the first try, almost exactly 3 years after my accident.

The spring before I started medical school in 2005, I had won the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon. In 2011, a few months after my accident, they invited us to be the starters of the race. When we stood at the starting line, I decided right then I was going to run this marathon again the next year. In spring 2012, I returned and finished in fourth place, beating my previous winning time by two minutes.

I have a different level of empathy for my patients now. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to not know if you’re going to leave the hospital. I’ve lived that. The process of writing my book was also cathartic for me. I told my story to try to give people hope.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: I have a tattoo on my wrist showing the date of Ali’s accident. The idea was to remind myself of what we’ve come through and everyone who went above and beyond. To show gratitude to them and remember everything that they did for us. It’s also to remember that every patient I see is somebody else’s Alison.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was Saturday night, and we had just gone to bed. Suddenly, Ali sat up, and screamed, “My head!” She then became nonresponsive and had a seizure. I was in disbelief, but I also knew exactly what was happening. I called 911: “My wife is having a head bleed. I need an ambulance.” It was a bad connection, and they could barely understand me.

As I tried to carry Ali downstairs, she vomited. She still had rubber bands in her mouth from the jaw fracture that was a result of her accident just a month ago. I knew she needed an airway. 

I grabbed a tracheostomy tube, but the opening over her trachea put in for the accident had since closed. I tried to push the tube through her neck, but it hurt her; her eyes opened.

I thought to myself: Maybe she doesn’t need it. This can wait until she gets to the hospital. I can’t do this to her. But she vomited again, and I knew what I had to do.

We were at the top of our stairs. I didn’t have a blade or any other equipment, just the tracheostomy tube with the dilator. I pushed hard, and she started fighting me. I had to hold her hands away with one arm. The tube popped in and she stared back at me in pain and fear.

I finally got her downstairs and called medical control at University Hospital of Cincinnati. I was able to speak with one of the attendings: “Ali’s aneurysm ruptured, and she just had a seizure. She has a GCS of 11 or 12. I replaced her tracheostomy tube. We’ll be there shortly.”

When I heard sirens come down our street, I carried Ali outside, but the sirens were from a firetruck. They likely assumed someone had fallen and had a head laceration. It was beyond deflating. I yelled incredulously: “We need an ambulance here now!”

When the ambulance finally arrived, they tried to tell me that I could not ride with them. Or if I did, I would have to sit up front. After arguing back and forth for a few seconds, I finally demanded: “This is medical control. This is MD-88, and this is my patient. I’m sitting in back with you. She needs four Zofran and two midazolam IV now.”
 

One month earlier ...

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor and I were both 4 months into our second year of residency, and we had been married for 5 months. I was a pediatric resident at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. She was an emergency medicine resident at the University Hospital. I was having my first day off in a couple weeks, and she was working a shift in the emergency department. She was also a part of the flight crew that day. Second-year residents would go out to the scenes of accidents or to other hospitals to transport the patient back to their Level I trauma center via helicopter. The resident was the physician and considered the leader on these flights.

That afternoon, I went for a bicycle ride. About three-quarters of the way through my ride, I was struck by a car.

The EMS crew got to me fairly quickly. They intubated me at the scene and got me to the closest hospital. Immediately, the hospital realized my case was outside the scope of their care. They contacted University Hospital requesting that their flight crew come to transport me.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: At around 5:30 p.m. the day of my shift, the tones went out on the radio: “AirCare 1 and Pod Doc, you are requested for interhospital transfer, 27-year-old Jane Doe, GCS 5.” That was the only information given.

When we landed at the hospital, I walked in with my nurse. I was listening to the doctor’s report and doing my once over. The patient was a little bit bradycardic, heart rate in the 40s or 50s. Blood pressure was normal if not a little bit elevated. There was obvious facial trauma. The endotracheal tube in place.

She was covered with a blanket, but some of her clothing was visible. Suddenly, I recognized it. It was our cycling team’s kit. I thought, please don’t let it be Ali. I looked at her face and realized that this was Alison.

I said: “That’s my wife.” Everyone stopped and looked at me. The room went silent.

My flight nurse went out and called back to dispatch. “This is my doc’s wife. Dispatch the second helicopter!” She had to repeat herself a few times before they understood what was happening.

As Ali’s spouse, I couldn’t be the flight doctor. I didn’t care. I called medical control myself and told them: “This is Ali. We have to fly her. She has a head injury.” They said: “You can’t fly her.” I said: “We can’t delay her care. I have to fly her.” They said: “No, you can’t fly her.” I broke down. Devastated.

I went back into the room and looked at Ali. Her heart rate was dropping. My flight nurse was in the trauma bay with the emergency physician. We realized definitive care was being delayed because of my presence, which was an awful feeling to have. I think at that point we realized, you do nothing, or you act. So, we acted.

I told my flight nurse: “Let’s give her atropine to increase her heart rate.” I asked about sedation, and she hadn’t had anything. I spurted off some doses: “a hundred of fentanyl and five of midazolam.” My flight nurse actually administered smaller doses. She thought it was a bit aggressive, and she was correct. I was trying to maintain composure, but it was hard.

The emergency medicine physician volunteered to fly with her, so I called back medical control in desperation: “This doctor’s willing to fly. Let him take her.”

They told me apologetically, knowing my agony, that he was not trained to fly and therefore could not do so. I sat down in the ambulance bay crying, waiting for the second helicopter to arrive.

When we got Ali onto AirCare 2, my nurse then told me I couldn’t fly with her. I said, “I’m flying with her.” She said, “no, it’s not safe.” I said, “I’m not leaving her. I’ll sit in the front. What do you think I’m going to do? Jump out of the helicopter?” I think they realized there was no other option that I would agree to. I rode up front.

It was the fastest flight to the trauma center that I had ever experienced. They did a hot offload, meaning they didn’t even shut down the blades. We got her to the trauma center. And then it was a whole other layer of chaos.

Dr. Alison Delgado: Taylor’s presence may have delayed my transfer, but the University emergency department was prepped and waiting for me. Radiology was on hold, surgery and neurosurgery were there waiting. Everyone was in the trauma bay.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: My younger sister was a social worker in that emergency department, and she was on shift. She and my residency director went to CT with Ali. As the images from Ali’s CT scan showed up on the screens, everyone in the room gasped. She had a nonsurvivable head injury.

The AirCare 2 doctor collapsed into our director’s arms and cried: “She’s going to die tonight.” He responded: “I know. But we’ve got work to do.” Then he asked my sister how close she was with me. She told him we were extremely close. “Good, because we have to break the news that she’s going to die tonight.”

But the doctor never told me. I was in the consultation room. He came in and told me that she had a lot of bleeding around the brain, but he couldn’t find the words to tell me the true severity. He didn’t have to.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was in a coma for 5 days. Shift by shift, they were amazed that I was still there. I had a broken jaw, broken vertebrae in my spine, a broken clavicle and sternum and contusions to my heart and lungs. I was later found to have a dissection of my carotid artery as well as an aneurysm to the carotid artery. These were both caused by the accident.

My jaw was wired shut and a tracheostomy was placed. They coiled the aneurysm and put a stent in the dissection. I was placed on dual antiplatelet therapy to prevent stent thrombosis.

When I initially woke from the coma during my hospital stay, I could not speak, but I remember being told why I was there. My first two thoughts were: Was it my fault? and I need to get back to work.

Two and a half weeks later, I was stable enough to go to an in-patient rehab facility.

I was very motivated. I made a lot of good progress, because Taylor was there with me. We looked through pictures, trying to jog my memory and help with my vocabulary. I’d look at a bird and know this is a flying animal but couldn’t think of the word bird. I couldn’t remember my mom’s name.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: She was becoming more fluent with her speech each day. Her right arm was working more normally. We started going on walks outside. Within 14 days she was discharged home.

When we left the rehab facility, I took a couple extra tracheostomy tubes and supplies, because I didn’t know how long Ali would have her trach. The emergency medicine person in me just thought, always have these things on hand.

A few days later, her ENT doctor decannulated her tracheostomy tube. In our minds, we were done.

The next night, she had the intracranial hemorrhage.
 

Return to the hospital ...

Dr. Taylor Delgado: The aneurysm they had coiled had ruptured. Ali had a recurrent subarachnoid hemorrhage and an intracranial hemorrhage, and she was still bleeding. So, they took her to IR to try to embolize it and accomplished as much as they possibly could.

She had hydrocephalus, the ventricles in her brain were enlarged. Normally, they would put in a drain, but they couldn’t because she was on aspirin and Plavix (clopidogrel). That would risk her having a bleed around that insertion site, which would cause a brain hemorrhage.

Dr. Alison Delgado: I was like a ticking time bomb. We knew I would have to have surgery as soon as possible to open my skull and clip the aneurysm. But I had to be on the Plavix and aspirin for at least 6 weeks before it would be considered safe to discontinue them. It was another 3 weeks before they could proceed with the surgery.

The second hospitalization was scarier than the first, because I was much more aware. I knew that I might not be able to return to my residency and do the thing I had dreamed of doing. There were risks of me becoming blind or paralyzed during the surgery. I might not even leave the hospital.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: It was mid-December by then, and my dad asked her, “Ali, what do you want for Christmas?” She looked at him deadpan and said, “normal brain.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: The surgery was successful. I went home a few days later. But I’d lost everything I had gained in rehabilitation. My speech was back to square one.

None of the doctors really expected me to go back to work. But from my standpoint, I thought, I could have died the day I was hit. I could have died when the aneurysm ruptured, or at any point along the way. But I’m here and I’m going back to work.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: In January, I went back to work and I had to fly on the helicopter. They were worried about how I would react. My flight director flew with me on my first shift. Our first flight was an inter-facility STEMI transfer. No big deal. The second one was a car accident outside of Batesville, Ind. We were in the back of the ambulance, and I looked at this woman. She was 27 years old, thin, with long hair. She looked exactly like Ali.

Ali flashed into my mind, and I was like, nope. Ali’s at home. She’s fine. This person is right here, right now. Do what you do. I intubated her in the helicopter. We gave her hypertonic saline. I started a blood transfusion. Afterward, my flight director came up to me and said: “You’re released back to full duty. That was the hardest test you could possibly have on your first day back flying, and you nailed it.”

Dr. Alison Delgado: I finished my residency in December of 2012 and passed my pediatric board exam on the first try, almost exactly 3 years after my accident.

The spring before I started medical school in 2005, I had won the Cincinnati Flying Pig marathon. In 2011, a few months after my accident, they invited us to be the starters of the race. When we stood at the starting line, I decided right then I was going to run this marathon again the next year. In spring 2012, I returned and finished in fourth place, beating my previous winning time by two minutes.

I have a different level of empathy for my patients now. I know what it’s like to be scared. I know what it’s like to not know if you’re going to leave the hospital. I’ve lived that. The process of writing my book was also cathartic for me. I told my story to try to give people hope.

Dr. Taylor Delgado: I have a tattoo on my wrist showing the date of Ali’s accident. The idea was to remind myself of what we’ve come through and everyone who went above and beyond. To show gratitude to them and remember everything that they did for us. It’s also to remember that every patient I see is somebody else’s Alison.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It was a quiet day. I got up around 3 o’clock in the afternoon for my shift at 6 p.m. I was shaking off the cobwebs and making coffee at our front window that overlooked Brown Street in North Philadelphia. I looked out the window and saw a man stumbling down the street, grabbing his abdomen and yelling for help. There was nobody else around so I went outside to see what was going on.

He was in his 50s or 60s, bleeding and obviously in distress. I had him sit down. Then I ran back inside and grabbed a dish towel and some exam gloves that I had in the house.

I ran back out and assessed him. A bullet had gone through one of his hands, but he had other wounds. I had to expose him, so I trauma stripped him on the sidewalk. I got his pants and his shirt off and saw a gunshot going through his lower pelvis. He was bleeding out from there.

I got the towel and started applying deep pressure down into the iliac vein in case they hit something, which I found out later, they had. I held it there. The man was just lying there begging not to die.

I’m someone who is very calm, maybe abnormally calm, as people tell me. I try to use that during my resuscitations and traumas. Just keeping everybody calm makes the situation easier. Afterwards, people asked me, “Weren’t you worried that you were going to get shot?” That does happen in North Philadelphia. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

I didn’t have to think at all about what I was doing. We saw so many gunshots, especially at Einstein Medical Center. We saw them daily. I’d sometimes get more than half a dozen gunshots in one shift.

So, I was holding pressure and some people started to come over. I got somebody to call 911 and asked the man about his medical history. I found out he had diabetes. Five or 10 minutes later, EMS showed up. They looked pretty stunned when I was able to give the handoff presentation to them. I told them what happened and his back-story. I wanted to make sure they would check his sugar and take extra precautions.

They got him on the stretcher, and he eventually made it to the hospital where he had surgery. They had to have a vascular surgeon work on him. I called later, and they told me, “Yeah, he’s alive.” But that’s about the extent of the update I got.

After the ambulance left, it was kind of chaos. All the neighbors poured out of their houses. People were panicked, talking and getting excited about it. I didn’t know, but everyone else had actually been home the whole time. They didn’t come out until then.

I went back inside and tried to get ready for work. I wasn’t planning on talking to the media, but my next door neighbor just walked the news camera crew over to my house and knocked on my door. I wasn’t exactly dressed to be on TV, but they talked to me on camera, and it was on the news later that night.

I went to work and didn’t say anything about it. To be honest, I was trying to avoid telling anyone. Our team had a close-knit bond, and we would often tease each other when we received any type of recognition.

Naturally one of my attendings saw it on the local news and told everybody. So, I got a lot of happy harassment for quite some time. Someone baked me a cake that said, “Hero of Fairmount” (the Philly neighborhood in which I live). Someone else printed out a photo of me that said, “Stop the Bleed Hero of Fairmount,” and put it on every single computer screen.

The man came to see me about 2 weeks later (a neighbor told him where I lived). The man was very tearful and gave me a big hug. We just embraced for a while, and he said how thankful he was. He brought me a bottle of wine, which I thought was really nice.

He told me what happened to him: There was a lot of construction on our street and he was the contractor overseeing a couple of home remodels and demolitions. Sometimes he paid workers in cash and carried it with him. Somebody had tipped off somebody else that he was going to be there that day. The contractor walked into one of the houses and a guy in a ski mask waited there with a gun. The guy shot him and took the cash. The bullet went through his hand into his pelvis.

I had never had to deal with something that intense before outside of work. Most of it really comes down to the basics – the ABCs and bleeding control. You do whatever you can with what you have. In this case, it was just a dish towel, gloves, and my hands to put as much pressure as possible.

It really was strange that I happened to be looking out the window at that moment. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence. The man told me he believed God had put somebody there at the right place at the right time to save his life. I just felt very fortunate to have been able to help him. I never saw him again.

I think something like this gives you a little confidence that you can actually do something and make a meaningful impact anywhere when it’s needed. It lets you know that you’re capable of doing it. You always think about it, but you don’t know until it happens.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It was a quiet day. I got up around 3 o’clock in the afternoon for my shift at 6 p.m. I was shaking off the cobwebs and making coffee at our front window that overlooked Brown Street in North Philadelphia. I looked out the window and saw a man stumbling down the street, grabbing his abdomen and yelling for help. There was nobody else around so I went outside to see what was going on.

He was in his 50s or 60s, bleeding and obviously in distress. I had him sit down. Then I ran back inside and grabbed a dish towel and some exam gloves that I had in the house.

I ran back out and assessed him. A bullet had gone through one of his hands, but he had other wounds. I had to expose him, so I trauma stripped him on the sidewalk. I got his pants and his shirt off and saw a gunshot going through his lower pelvis. He was bleeding out from there.

I got the towel and started applying deep pressure down into the iliac vein in case they hit something, which I found out later, they had. I held it there. The man was just lying there begging not to die.

I’m someone who is very calm, maybe abnormally calm, as people tell me. I try to use that during my resuscitations and traumas. Just keeping everybody calm makes the situation easier. Afterwards, people asked me, “Weren’t you worried that you were going to get shot?” That does happen in North Philadelphia. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

I didn’t have to think at all about what I was doing. We saw so many gunshots, especially at Einstein Medical Center. We saw them daily. I’d sometimes get more than half a dozen gunshots in one shift.

So, I was holding pressure and some people started to come over. I got somebody to call 911 and asked the man about his medical history. I found out he had diabetes. Five or 10 minutes later, EMS showed up. They looked pretty stunned when I was able to give the handoff presentation to them. I told them what happened and his back-story. I wanted to make sure they would check his sugar and take extra precautions.

They got him on the stretcher, and he eventually made it to the hospital where he had surgery. They had to have a vascular surgeon work on him. I called later, and they told me, “Yeah, he’s alive.” But that’s about the extent of the update I got.

After the ambulance left, it was kind of chaos. All the neighbors poured out of their houses. People were panicked, talking and getting excited about it. I didn’t know, but everyone else had actually been home the whole time. They didn’t come out until then.

I went back inside and tried to get ready for work. I wasn’t planning on talking to the media, but my next door neighbor just walked the news camera crew over to my house and knocked on my door. I wasn’t exactly dressed to be on TV, but they talked to me on camera, and it was on the news later that night.

I went to work and didn’t say anything about it. To be honest, I was trying to avoid telling anyone. Our team had a close-knit bond, and we would often tease each other when we received any type of recognition.

Naturally one of my attendings saw it on the local news and told everybody. So, I got a lot of happy harassment for quite some time. Someone baked me a cake that said, “Hero of Fairmount” (the Philly neighborhood in which I live). Someone else printed out a photo of me that said, “Stop the Bleed Hero of Fairmount,” and put it on every single computer screen.

The man came to see me about 2 weeks later (a neighbor told him where I lived). The man was very tearful and gave me a big hug. We just embraced for a while, and he said how thankful he was. He brought me a bottle of wine, which I thought was really nice.

He told me what happened to him: There was a lot of construction on our street and he was the contractor overseeing a couple of home remodels and demolitions. Sometimes he paid workers in cash and carried it with him. Somebody had tipped off somebody else that he was going to be there that day. The contractor walked into one of the houses and a guy in a ski mask waited there with a gun. The guy shot him and took the cash. The bullet went through his hand into his pelvis.

I had never had to deal with something that intense before outside of work. Most of it really comes down to the basics – the ABCs and bleeding control. You do whatever you can with what you have. In this case, it was just a dish towel, gloves, and my hands to put as much pressure as possible.

It really was strange that I happened to be looking out the window at that moment. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence. The man told me he believed God had put somebody there at the right place at the right time to save his life. I just felt very fortunate to have been able to help him. I never saw him again.

I think something like this gives you a little confidence that you can actually do something and make a meaningful impact anywhere when it’s needed. It lets you know that you’re capable of doing it. You always think about it, but you don’t know until it happens.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

It was a quiet day. I got up around 3 o’clock in the afternoon for my shift at 6 p.m. I was shaking off the cobwebs and making coffee at our front window that overlooked Brown Street in North Philadelphia. I looked out the window and saw a man stumbling down the street, grabbing his abdomen and yelling for help. There was nobody else around so I went outside to see what was going on.

He was in his 50s or 60s, bleeding and obviously in distress. I had him sit down. Then I ran back inside and grabbed a dish towel and some exam gloves that I had in the house.

I ran back out and assessed him. A bullet had gone through one of his hands, but he had other wounds. I had to expose him, so I trauma stripped him on the sidewalk. I got his pants and his shirt off and saw a gunshot going through his lower pelvis. He was bleeding out from there.

I got the towel and started applying deep pressure down into the iliac vein in case they hit something, which I found out later, they had. I held it there. The man was just lying there begging not to die.

I’m someone who is very calm, maybe abnormally calm, as people tell me. I try to use that during my resuscitations and traumas. Just keeping everybody calm makes the situation easier. Afterwards, people asked me, “Weren’t you worried that you were going to get shot?” That does happen in North Philadelphia. But it didn’t even cross my mind.

I didn’t have to think at all about what I was doing. We saw so many gunshots, especially at Einstein Medical Center. We saw them daily. I’d sometimes get more than half a dozen gunshots in one shift.

So, I was holding pressure and some people started to come over. I got somebody to call 911 and asked the man about his medical history. I found out he had diabetes. Five or 10 minutes later, EMS showed up. They looked pretty stunned when I was able to give the handoff presentation to them. I told them what happened and his back-story. I wanted to make sure they would check his sugar and take extra precautions.

They got him on the stretcher, and he eventually made it to the hospital where he had surgery. They had to have a vascular surgeon work on him. I called later, and they told me, “Yeah, he’s alive.” But that’s about the extent of the update I got.

After the ambulance left, it was kind of chaos. All the neighbors poured out of their houses. People were panicked, talking and getting excited about it. I didn’t know, but everyone else had actually been home the whole time. They didn’t come out until then.

I went back inside and tried to get ready for work. I wasn’t planning on talking to the media, but my next door neighbor just walked the news camera crew over to my house and knocked on my door. I wasn’t exactly dressed to be on TV, but they talked to me on camera, and it was on the news later that night.

I went to work and didn’t say anything about it. To be honest, I was trying to avoid telling anyone. Our team had a close-knit bond, and we would often tease each other when we received any type of recognition.

Naturally one of my attendings saw it on the local news and told everybody. So, I got a lot of happy harassment for quite some time. Someone baked me a cake that said, “Hero of Fairmount” (the Philly neighborhood in which I live). Someone else printed out a photo of me that said, “Stop the Bleed Hero of Fairmount,” and put it on every single computer screen.

The man came to see me about 2 weeks later (a neighbor told him where I lived). The man was very tearful and gave me a big hug. We just embraced for a while, and he said how thankful he was. He brought me a bottle of wine, which I thought was really nice.

He told me what happened to him: There was a lot of construction on our street and he was the contractor overseeing a couple of home remodels and demolitions. Sometimes he paid workers in cash and carried it with him. Somebody had tipped off somebody else that he was going to be there that day. The contractor walked into one of the houses and a guy in a ski mask waited there with a gun. The guy shot him and took the cash. The bullet went through his hand into his pelvis.

I had never had to deal with something that intense before outside of work. Most of it really comes down to the basics – the ABCs and bleeding control. You do whatever you can with what you have. In this case, it was just a dish towel, gloves, and my hands to put as much pressure as possible.

It really was strange that I happened to be looking out the window at that moment. I don’t know if it was just a coincidence. The man told me he believed God had put somebody there at the right place at the right time to save his life. I just felt very fortunate to have been able to help him. I never saw him again.

I think something like this gives you a little confidence that you can actually do something and make a meaningful impact anywhere when it’s needed. It lets you know that you’re capable of doing it. You always think about it, but you don’t know until it happens.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

My son needed a physical for his football team, and we couldn’t get an appointment. So, we went to the urgent care next to the H Mart in Cary, N.C. While I was waiting, I thought, let me go get a coffee or an iced tea at the H Mart. They have this French bakery in there.

I went in and ordered my drink, and I was waiting in line. I saw this woman pass me running with a baby. Another woman – I found out later it was her sister – was running after her, and she said: “Call 911!”

“I don’t have my phone,” I said. I left my phone with my son; he was using it.

The lady came running back holding the baby. She was hysterical, screaming: “My baby’s not breathing!”

I said: “Are you okay?” And she just handed me the baby. The baby was gray, and there was blood in her nose and mouth. The woman said: “She’s my baby. She’s 1 week old.”

I was trying to think very quickly. I didn’t see any bubbles in the blood around the baby’s nose or mouth to tell me if she was breathing. She was just limp. The mom was still screaming, but I couldn’t even hear her anymore. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. All I could hear were my thoughts: “I need to put this baby down to start CPR. Someone was calling 911. I should go in the front of the store to save time, so EMS doesn’t have to look for me when they come.”

I started moving and trying to clean the blood from the baby’s face with her blanket. At the front of the store, I saw a display of rice bags. I put the baby on top of one of the bags. “Okay, where do I check for a pulse on a baby?” I took care of adults, never pediatric patients, never babies. She was so tiny. I put my hand on her chest and felt nothing. No heartbeat. She still wasn’t breathing.

People were around me, but I couldn’t see or hear anybody. All I was thinking was: “What can I do for this patient right now?” I started CPR with two fingers. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever for me. I couldn’t do mouth-to-mouth because there was so much blood on her face. I still don’t know what caused the bleeding.

It was COVID time, so I had my mask on. I was, like: “You know what? Screw this. She’s a 1-week-old baby. Her lungs are tiny. Maybe I don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. I can just blow in her mouth.” I took off my mask and opened her mouth. I took a deep breath and blew a little bit of air in her mouth. I continued CPR for maybe 5 or 10 seconds.

And then she gasped! She opened her eyes, but they were rolled up. I was still doing CPR, and maybe 2 second after that, I could feel under my hand a very rapid heart rate. I took my hand away and lifted her up.

Just then the EMS got there. I gave them the baby and said: “I did CPR. I don’t know how long it lasted.” The EMS person looked at me, said: “Thank you for what you did. Now we need you to help us with mom.” I said, “okay.”

I turned around, and the mom was still screaming and crying. I asked one of the ladies that worked there, “Can you get me water?” She brought it, and I gave some to the mom, and she started talking to EMS.

People were asking me: “What happened? What happened?” It’s funny, I guess the nurse in me didn’t want to give out information. And I didn’t want to ask for information. I was thinking about privacy. I said, “I don’t know,” and walked away.

The mom’s sister came and hugged me and said thank you. I was still in this out-of-body zone, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So, I left. I went to my car and when I got in it, I started shaking and sweating and crying.

I had been so calm in the moment, not thinking about if the baby was going to survive or not. I didn’t know how long she was without oxygen, if she would have some anoxic brain injury or stroke. I’m a mom, too. I would have been just as terrified as that mom. I just hoped there was a chance that she could take her baby home.

I went back to the urgent care, and my son was, like, “are you okay?” I said: “You will not believe this. I just did CPR on a baby.” He said: “Oh. Okay.” I don’t think he even knew what that meant.

I’ve been an ICU nurse since 2008. I’ve been in very critical moments with patients, life or death situations. I help save people all the time at the hospital. Most of the time, you know what you’re getting. You can prepare. You have everything you need, and everyone knows what to do. You know what the worst will look like. You know the outcome.

But this was something else. You read about things like this. You hear about them. But you never think it’ll happen to you – until it happens.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. So, 2 days later, I posted on Next Door to see if somebody would read it and say, “hey, the baby survived.” I was amazed at how many people responded, but no one knew the family.

The local news got hold of me and asked me to do a story. I told them, “the only way I can do a story is if the baby survived. I’m not going to do a story about a dead baby, and the mom has to live through it again.”

The reporter called me later on that day and said she had talked to the police. They said the family was visiting from out of state. The baby went to the hospital and was discharged home 2 days later. I said, “okay, then I can talk.”

When the news story came out, I started getting texts from people at work the same night. So many people were reaching out. Even people from out of state. But I never heard from the family. No one knew how to reach them.

Since I was very young, I wanted to work in a hospital, to help people. It really brings me joy, seeing somebody go home, knowing, yes, we did this. It’s a great feeling. I love this job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I just wish I had asked the mom’s name. Because I always think about that baby. I always wonder, what did she become? I hope somebody reads this who might know that little girl. It would be so nice to meet her one day.

Ms. Diallo is an ICU nurse and now works as nurse care coordinator at the University of North Carolina’s Children’s Neurology Clinic in Chapel Hill.
 

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

My son needed a physical for his football team, and we couldn’t get an appointment. So, we went to the urgent care next to the H Mart in Cary, N.C. While I was waiting, I thought, let me go get a coffee or an iced tea at the H Mart. They have this French bakery in there.

I went in and ordered my drink, and I was waiting in line. I saw this woman pass me running with a baby. Another woman – I found out later it was her sister – was running after her, and she said: “Call 911!”

“I don’t have my phone,” I said. I left my phone with my son; he was using it.

The lady came running back holding the baby. She was hysterical, screaming: “My baby’s not breathing!”

I said: “Are you okay?” And she just handed me the baby. The baby was gray, and there was blood in her nose and mouth. The woman said: “She’s my baby. She’s 1 week old.”

I was trying to think very quickly. I didn’t see any bubbles in the blood around the baby’s nose or mouth to tell me if she was breathing. She was just limp. The mom was still screaming, but I couldn’t even hear her anymore. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. All I could hear were my thoughts: “I need to put this baby down to start CPR. Someone was calling 911. I should go in the front of the store to save time, so EMS doesn’t have to look for me when they come.”

I started moving and trying to clean the blood from the baby’s face with her blanket. At the front of the store, I saw a display of rice bags. I put the baby on top of one of the bags. “Okay, where do I check for a pulse on a baby?” I took care of adults, never pediatric patients, never babies. She was so tiny. I put my hand on her chest and felt nothing. No heartbeat. She still wasn’t breathing.

People were around me, but I couldn’t see or hear anybody. All I was thinking was: “What can I do for this patient right now?” I started CPR with two fingers. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever for me. I couldn’t do mouth-to-mouth because there was so much blood on her face. I still don’t know what caused the bleeding.

It was COVID time, so I had my mask on. I was, like: “You know what? Screw this. She’s a 1-week-old baby. Her lungs are tiny. Maybe I don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. I can just blow in her mouth.” I took off my mask and opened her mouth. I took a deep breath and blew a little bit of air in her mouth. I continued CPR for maybe 5 or 10 seconds.

And then she gasped! She opened her eyes, but they were rolled up. I was still doing CPR, and maybe 2 second after that, I could feel under my hand a very rapid heart rate. I took my hand away and lifted her up.

Just then the EMS got there. I gave them the baby and said: “I did CPR. I don’t know how long it lasted.” The EMS person looked at me, said: “Thank you for what you did. Now we need you to help us with mom.” I said, “okay.”

I turned around, and the mom was still screaming and crying. I asked one of the ladies that worked there, “Can you get me water?” She brought it, and I gave some to the mom, and she started talking to EMS.

People were asking me: “What happened? What happened?” It’s funny, I guess the nurse in me didn’t want to give out information. And I didn’t want to ask for information. I was thinking about privacy. I said, “I don’t know,” and walked away.

The mom’s sister came and hugged me and said thank you. I was still in this out-of-body zone, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So, I left. I went to my car and when I got in it, I started shaking and sweating and crying.

I had been so calm in the moment, not thinking about if the baby was going to survive or not. I didn’t know how long she was without oxygen, if she would have some anoxic brain injury or stroke. I’m a mom, too. I would have been just as terrified as that mom. I just hoped there was a chance that she could take her baby home.

I went back to the urgent care, and my son was, like, “are you okay?” I said: “You will not believe this. I just did CPR on a baby.” He said: “Oh. Okay.” I don’t think he even knew what that meant.

I’ve been an ICU nurse since 2008. I’ve been in very critical moments with patients, life or death situations. I help save people all the time at the hospital. Most of the time, you know what you’re getting. You can prepare. You have everything you need, and everyone knows what to do. You know what the worst will look like. You know the outcome.

But this was something else. You read about things like this. You hear about them. But you never think it’ll happen to you – until it happens.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. So, 2 days later, I posted on Next Door to see if somebody would read it and say, “hey, the baby survived.” I was amazed at how many people responded, but no one knew the family.

The local news got hold of me and asked me to do a story. I told them, “the only way I can do a story is if the baby survived. I’m not going to do a story about a dead baby, and the mom has to live through it again.”

The reporter called me later on that day and said she had talked to the police. They said the family was visiting from out of state. The baby went to the hospital and was discharged home 2 days later. I said, “okay, then I can talk.”

When the news story came out, I started getting texts from people at work the same night. So many people were reaching out. Even people from out of state. But I never heard from the family. No one knew how to reach them.

Since I was very young, I wanted to work in a hospital, to help people. It really brings me joy, seeing somebody go home, knowing, yes, we did this. It’s a great feeling. I love this job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I just wish I had asked the mom’s name. Because I always think about that baby. I always wonder, what did she become? I hope somebody reads this who might know that little girl. It would be so nice to meet her one day.

Ms. Diallo is an ICU nurse and now works as nurse care coordinator at the University of North Carolina’s Children’s Neurology Clinic in Chapel Hill.
 

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

My son needed a physical for his football team, and we couldn’t get an appointment. So, we went to the urgent care next to the H Mart in Cary, N.C. While I was waiting, I thought, let me go get a coffee or an iced tea at the H Mart. They have this French bakery in there.

I went in and ordered my drink, and I was waiting in line. I saw this woman pass me running with a baby. Another woman – I found out later it was her sister – was running after her, and she said: “Call 911!”

“I don’t have my phone,” I said. I left my phone with my son; he was using it.

The lady came running back holding the baby. She was hysterical, screaming: “My baby’s not breathing!”

I said: “Are you okay?” And she just handed me the baby. The baby was gray, and there was blood in her nose and mouth. The woman said: “She’s my baby. She’s 1 week old.”

I was trying to think very quickly. I didn’t see any bubbles in the blood around the baby’s nose or mouth to tell me if she was breathing. She was just limp. The mom was still screaming, but I couldn’t even hear her anymore. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. All I could hear were my thoughts: “I need to put this baby down to start CPR. Someone was calling 911. I should go in the front of the store to save time, so EMS doesn’t have to look for me when they come.”

I started moving and trying to clean the blood from the baby’s face with her blanket. At the front of the store, I saw a display of rice bags. I put the baby on top of one of the bags. “Okay, where do I check for a pulse on a baby?” I took care of adults, never pediatric patients, never babies. She was so tiny. I put my hand on her chest and felt nothing. No heartbeat. She still wasn’t breathing.

People were around me, but I couldn’t see or hear anybody. All I was thinking was: “What can I do for this patient right now?” I started CPR with two fingers. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever for me. I couldn’t do mouth-to-mouth because there was so much blood on her face. I still don’t know what caused the bleeding.

It was COVID time, so I had my mask on. I was, like: “You know what? Screw this. She’s a 1-week-old baby. Her lungs are tiny. Maybe I don’t have to do mouth-to-mouth. I can just blow in her mouth.” I took off my mask and opened her mouth. I took a deep breath and blew a little bit of air in her mouth. I continued CPR for maybe 5 or 10 seconds.

And then she gasped! She opened her eyes, but they were rolled up. I was still doing CPR, and maybe 2 second after that, I could feel under my hand a very rapid heart rate. I took my hand away and lifted her up.

Just then the EMS got there. I gave them the baby and said: “I did CPR. I don’t know how long it lasted.” The EMS person looked at me, said: “Thank you for what you did. Now we need you to help us with mom.” I said, “okay.”

I turned around, and the mom was still screaming and crying. I asked one of the ladies that worked there, “Can you get me water?” She brought it, and I gave some to the mom, and she started talking to EMS.

People were asking me: “What happened? What happened?” It’s funny, I guess the nurse in me didn’t want to give out information. And I didn’t want to ask for information. I was thinking about privacy. I said, “I don’t know,” and walked away.

The mom’s sister came and hugged me and said thank you. I was still in this out-of-body zone, and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So, I left. I went to my car and when I got in it, I started shaking and sweating and crying.

I had been so calm in the moment, not thinking about if the baby was going to survive or not. I didn’t know how long she was without oxygen, if she would have some anoxic brain injury or stroke. I’m a mom, too. I would have been just as terrified as that mom. I just hoped there was a chance that she could take her baby home.

I went back to the urgent care, and my son was, like, “are you okay?” I said: “You will not believe this. I just did CPR on a baby.” He said: “Oh. Okay.” I don’t think he even knew what that meant.

I’ve been an ICU nurse since 2008. I’ve been in very critical moments with patients, life or death situations. I help save people all the time at the hospital. Most of the time, you know what you’re getting. You can prepare. You have everything you need, and everyone knows what to do. You know what the worst will look like. You know the outcome.

But this was something else. You read about things like this. You hear about them. But you never think it’ll happen to you – until it happens.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby. So, 2 days later, I posted on Next Door to see if somebody would read it and say, “hey, the baby survived.” I was amazed at how many people responded, but no one knew the family.

The local news got hold of me and asked me to do a story. I told them, “the only way I can do a story is if the baby survived. I’m not going to do a story about a dead baby, and the mom has to live through it again.”

The reporter called me later on that day and said she had talked to the police. They said the family was visiting from out of state. The baby went to the hospital and was discharged home 2 days later. I said, “okay, then I can talk.”

When the news story came out, I started getting texts from people at work the same night. So many people were reaching out. Even people from out of state. But I never heard from the family. No one knew how to reach them.

Since I was very young, I wanted to work in a hospital, to help people. It really brings me joy, seeing somebody go home, knowing, yes, we did this. It’s a great feeling. I love this job. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I just wish I had asked the mom’s name. Because I always think about that baby. I always wonder, what did she become? I hope somebody reads this who might know that little girl. It would be so nice to meet her one day.

Ms. Diallo is an ICU nurse and now works as nurse care coordinator at the University of North Carolina’s Children’s Neurology Clinic in Chapel Hill.
 

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

As a lifeguard during college and then a physician assistant in emergency medicine for almost 3 decades, people often ask how I deal with emergency situations. I tell them the emotions turn off; skills and training take over. That is exactly what happened one day while I was surfing.

There’s a famous surf spot called Old Man’s on San Onofre beach in north San Diego County. It has nice, gentle waves that people say are similar to Waikiki in Hawaii. Since the waves are so forgiving, a lot of older people surf there. I taught my boys and some friends how to surf there. Everyone enjoys the water. It’s just a really fun vibe.

In September of 2008, I was at Old Man’s surfing with friends. After a while, I told them I was going to catch the next wave in. When I rode the wave to the beach, I saw an older guy waving his arms above his head, trying to get the lifeguard’s attention. His friend was lying on the sand at the water’s edge, unconscious. The lifeguards were about 200 yards away in their truck. Since it was off-season, they weren’t in the nearby towers.

I threw my board down on the sand and ran over. The guy was blue in the face and had some secretions around his mouth. He wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. I told his friend to get the lifeguards.

I gave two rescue breaths, and then started CPR. The waves were still lapping against his feet. I could sense people gathering around, so I said, “Okay, we’re going to be hooking him up to electricity, let’s get him out of the water.” I didn’t want him in contact with the water that could potentially transmit that electricity to anyone else.

Many hands reached in and we dragged him up to dry sand. When we pulled down his wetsuit, I saw an old midline sternotomy incision on his chest and I thought: “Oh man, he’s got a cardiac history.” I said, “I need a towel,” and suddenly there was a towel in my hand. I dried him off and continued doing CPR.

The lifeguard truck pulled up and in my peripheral vision I saw two lifeguards running over with their first aid kit. While doing compressions, I yelled over my shoulder: “Bring your AED! Get your oxygen!” They ran back to the truck.

At that point, a young woman came up and said: “I’m a nuclear medicine tech. What can I do?” I asked her to help me keep his airway open. I positioned her at his head, and she did a chin lift.

The two lifeguards came running back. One was very experienced, and he started getting the AED ready and putting the pads on. The other lifeguard was younger. He was nervous and shaking, trying to figure out how to turn on the oxygen tank. I told him: “Buddy, you better figure that out real fast.”

The AED said there was a shockable rhythm so it delivered a shock. I started compressions again. The younger lifeguard finally figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank. Now we had oxygen, a bag valve mask, and an AED. We let our training take over and quickly melded together as an efficient team.

Two minutes later the AED analyzed the rhythm and administered another shock. More compressions. Then another shock and compressions. I had so much adrenaline going through my body that I wasn’t even getting tired.

By then I had been doing compressions for a good 10 minutes. Finally, I asked: “Hey, when are the paramedics going to get here?” And the lifeguard said: “They’re on their way.” But we were all the way down on a very remote section of beach.

We did CPR on him for what seemed like eternity, probably only 15-20 minutes. Sometimes he would get a pulse back and pink up, and we could stop and get a break. But then I would see him become cyanotic. His pulse would become thready, so I would start again.

The paramedics finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. He was still blue in the face, and I honestly thought he would probably not survive. I said a quick prayer for him as they drove off.

For the next week, I wondered what happened to him. The next time I was at the beach, I approached some older guys and said: “Hey, I was doing CPR on a guy here last week. Do you know what happened to him?” They gave me a thumbs up sign and said: “He’s doing great!” I was amazed!

While at the beach, I saw the nuclear med tech who helped with the airway and oxygen. She told me she’d called her hospital after the incident and asked if they had received a full arrest from the beach. They said: “Yes, he was sitting up, awake and talking when he came through the door.”

A few weeks later, the local paper called and wanted to do an interview and get some photos on the beach. We set up a time to meet, and I told the reporter that if he ever found out who the guy was, I would love to meet him. I had two reasons: First, because I had done mouth-to-mouth on him and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have any communicable diseases. Second, and this is a little weirder, I wanted to find out if he had an out-of-body experience. They fascinate me.

The reporter called back a few minutes later and said: “You’ll never believe this – while I was talking to you, my phone beeped with another call. The person left a message, and it was the guy. He wants to meet you.” I was amazed at the coincidence that he would call at exactly the same time.

Later that day, we all met at the beach. I gave him a big hug and told him he looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He now had a pacemaker/defibrillator. I found out he was married and had three teenage boys (who still have a father). He told me on the day of the incident he developed chest pain, weakness, and shortness of breath while surfing, so he came in and sat down at the water’s edge to catch his breath. That was the last thing he remembered. 

When I told him I did mouth-to-mouth on him, he laughed and reassured me that he didn’t have any contagious diseases. Then I asked him about an out-of-body experience, like hovering above his body and watching the CPR. “Did you see us doing that?” I asked. He said: “No, nothing but black. The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, and the paramedic asked me, ‘how does it feel to come back from the dead?’ ” He answered: “I think I have to throw up.”

He was cleared to surf 6 weeks later, and I thought it would be fun to surf with him. But when he started paddling out, he said his defibrillator went off, so he has now retired to golf.

I’ve been a PA in the emergency room for 28 years. I’ve done CPR for so long it’s instinctive for me. It really saves lives, especially with the AED. When people say: “You saved his life,” I say: “No, I didn’t. I just kept him alive and let the AED do its job.”

Ms. Westbrook-May is an emergency medicine physician assistant in Newport Beach, Calif.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

As a lifeguard during college and then a physician assistant in emergency medicine for almost 3 decades, people often ask how I deal with emergency situations. I tell them the emotions turn off; skills and training take over. That is exactly what happened one day while I was surfing.

There’s a famous surf spot called Old Man’s on San Onofre beach in north San Diego County. It has nice, gentle waves that people say are similar to Waikiki in Hawaii. Since the waves are so forgiving, a lot of older people surf there. I taught my boys and some friends how to surf there. Everyone enjoys the water. It’s just a really fun vibe.

In September of 2008, I was at Old Man’s surfing with friends. After a while, I told them I was going to catch the next wave in. When I rode the wave to the beach, I saw an older guy waving his arms above his head, trying to get the lifeguard’s attention. His friend was lying on the sand at the water’s edge, unconscious. The lifeguards were about 200 yards away in their truck. Since it was off-season, they weren’t in the nearby towers.

I threw my board down on the sand and ran over. The guy was blue in the face and had some secretions around his mouth. He wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. I told his friend to get the lifeguards.

I gave two rescue breaths, and then started CPR. The waves were still lapping against his feet. I could sense people gathering around, so I said, “Okay, we’re going to be hooking him up to electricity, let’s get him out of the water.” I didn’t want him in contact with the water that could potentially transmit that electricity to anyone else.

Many hands reached in and we dragged him up to dry sand. When we pulled down his wetsuit, I saw an old midline sternotomy incision on his chest and I thought: “Oh man, he’s got a cardiac history.” I said, “I need a towel,” and suddenly there was a towel in my hand. I dried him off and continued doing CPR.

The lifeguard truck pulled up and in my peripheral vision I saw two lifeguards running over with their first aid kit. While doing compressions, I yelled over my shoulder: “Bring your AED! Get your oxygen!” They ran back to the truck.

At that point, a young woman came up and said: “I’m a nuclear medicine tech. What can I do?” I asked her to help me keep his airway open. I positioned her at his head, and she did a chin lift.

The two lifeguards came running back. One was very experienced, and he started getting the AED ready and putting the pads on. The other lifeguard was younger. He was nervous and shaking, trying to figure out how to turn on the oxygen tank. I told him: “Buddy, you better figure that out real fast.”

The AED said there was a shockable rhythm so it delivered a shock. I started compressions again. The younger lifeguard finally figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank. Now we had oxygen, a bag valve mask, and an AED. We let our training take over and quickly melded together as an efficient team.

Two minutes later the AED analyzed the rhythm and administered another shock. More compressions. Then another shock and compressions. I had so much adrenaline going through my body that I wasn’t even getting tired.

By then I had been doing compressions for a good 10 minutes. Finally, I asked: “Hey, when are the paramedics going to get here?” And the lifeguard said: “They’re on their way.” But we were all the way down on a very remote section of beach.

We did CPR on him for what seemed like eternity, probably only 15-20 minutes. Sometimes he would get a pulse back and pink up, and we could stop and get a break. But then I would see him become cyanotic. His pulse would become thready, so I would start again.

The paramedics finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. He was still blue in the face, and I honestly thought he would probably not survive. I said a quick prayer for him as they drove off.

For the next week, I wondered what happened to him. The next time I was at the beach, I approached some older guys and said: “Hey, I was doing CPR on a guy here last week. Do you know what happened to him?” They gave me a thumbs up sign and said: “He’s doing great!” I was amazed!

While at the beach, I saw the nuclear med tech who helped with the airway and oxygen. She told me she’d called her hospital after the incident and asked if they had received a full arrest from the beach. They said: “Yes, he was sitting up, awake and talking when he came through the door.”

A few weeks later, the local paper called and wanted to do an interview and get some photos on the beach. We set up a time to meet, and I told the reporter that if he ever found out who the guy was, I would love to meet him. I had two reasons: First, because I had done mouth-to-mouth on him and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have any communicable diseases. Second, and this is a little weirder, I wanted to find out if he had an out-of-body experience. They fascinate me.

The reporter called back a few minutes later and said: “You’ll never believe this – while I was talking to you, my phone beeped with another call. The person left a message, and it was the guy. He wants to meet you.” I was amazed at the coincidence that he would call at exactly the same time.

Later that day, we all met at the beach. I gave him a big hug and told him he looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He now had a pacemaker/defibrillator. I found out he was married and had three teenage boys (who still have a father). He told me on the day of the incident he developed chest pain, weakness, and shortness of breath while surfing, so he came in and sat down at the water’s edge to catch his breath. That was the last thing he remembered. 

When I told him I did mouth-to-mouth on him, he laughed and reassured me that he didn’t have any contagious diseases. Then I asked him about an out-of-body experience, like hovering above his body and watching the CPR. “Did you see us doing that?” I asked. He said: “No, nothing but black. The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, and the paramedic asked me, ‘how does it feel to come back from the dead?’ ” He answered: “I think I have to throw up.”

He was cleared to surf 6 weeks later, and I thought it would be fun to surf with him. But when he started paddling out, he said his defibrillator went off, so he has now retired to golf.

I’ve been a PA in the emergency room for 28 years. I’ve done CPR for so long it’s instinctive for me. It really saves lives, especially with the AED. When people say: “You saved his life,” I say: “No, I didn’t. I just kept him alive and let the AED do its job.”

Ms. Westbrook-May is an emergency medicine physician assistant in Newport Beach, Calif.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

As a lifeguard during college and then a physician assistant in emergency medicine for almost 3 decades, people often ask how I deal with emergency situations. I tell them the emotions turn off; skills and training take over. That is exactly what happened one day while I was surfing.

There’s a famous surf spot called Old Man’s on San Onofre beach in north San Diego County. It has nice, gentle waves that people say are similar to Waikiki in Hawaii. Since the waves are so forgiving, a lot of older people surf there. I taught my boys and some friends how to surf there. Everyone enjoys the water. It’s just a really fun vibe.

In September of 2008, I was at Old Man’s surfing with friends. After a while, I told them I was going to catch the next wave in. When I rode the wave to the beach, I saw an older guy waving his arms above his head, trying to get the lifeguard’s attention. His friend was lying on the sand at the water’s edge, unconscious. The lifeguards were about 200 yards away in their truck. Since it was off-season, they weren’t in the nearby towers.

I threw my board down on the sand and ran over. The guy was blue in the face and had some secretions around his mouth. He wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. I told his friend to get the lifeguards.

I gave two rescue breaths, and then started CPR. The waves were still lapping against his feet. I could sense people gathering around, so I said, “Okay, we’re going to be hooking him up to electricity, let’s get him out of the water.” I didn’t want him in contact with the water that could potentially transmit that electricity to anyone else.

Many hands reached in and we dragged him up to dry sand. When we pulled down his wetsuit, I saw an old midline sternotomy incision on his chest and I thought: “Oh man, he’s got a cardiac history.” I said, “I need a towel,” and suddenly there was a towel in my hand. I dried him off and continued doing CPR.

The lifeguard truck pulled up and in my peripheral vision I saw two lifeguards running over with their first aid kit. While doing compressions, I yelled over my shoulder: “Bring your AED! Get your oxygen!” They ran back to the truck.

At that point, a young woman came up and said: “I’m a nuclear medicine tech. What can I do?” I asked her to help me keep his airway open. I positioned her at his head, and she did a chin lift.

The two lifeguards came running back. One was very experienced, and he started getting the AED ready and putting the pads on. The other lifeguard was younger. He was nervous and shaking, trying to figure out how to turn on the oxygen tank. I told him: “Buddy, you better figure that out real fast.”

The AED said there was a shockable rhythm so it delivered a shock. I started compressions again. The younger lifeguard finally figured out how to turn on the oxygen tank. Now we had oxygen, a bag valve mask, and an AED. We let our training take over and quickly melded together as an efficient team.

Two minutes later the AED analyzed the rhythm and administered another shock. More compressions. Then another shock and compressions. I had so much adrenaline going through my body that I wasn’t even getting tired.

By then I had been doing compressions for a good 10 minutes. Finally, I asked: “Hey, when are the paramedics going to get here?” And the lifeguard said: “They’re on their way.” But we were all the way down on a very remote section of beach.

We did CPR on him for what seemed like eternity, probably only 15-20 minutes. Sometimes he would get a pulse back and pink up, and we could stop and get a break. But then I would see him become cyanotic. His pulse would become thready, so I would start again.

The paramedics finally arrived and loaded him into the ambulance. He was still blue in the face, and I honestly thought he would probably not survive. I said a quick prayer for him as they drove off.

For the next week, I wondered what happened to him. The next time I was at the beach, I approached some older guys and said: “Hey, I was doing CPR on a guy here last week. Do you know what happened to him?” They gave me a thumbs up sign and said: “He’s doing great!” I was amazed!

While at the beach, I saw the nuclear med tech who helped with the airway and oxygen. She told me she’d called her hospital after the incident and asked if they had received a full arrest from the beach. They said: “Yes, he was sitting up, awake and talking when he came through the door.”

A few weeks later, the local paper called and wanted to do an interview and get some photos on the beach. We set up a time to meet, and I told the reporter that if he ever found out who the guy was, I would love to meet him. I had two reasons: First, because I had done mouth-to-mouth on him and I wanted to make sure he didn’t have any communicable diseases. Second, and this is a little weirder, I wanted to find out if he had an out-of-body experience. They fascinate me.

The reporter called back a few minutes later and said: “You’ll never believe this – while I was talking to you, my phone beeped with another call. The person left a message, and it was the guy. He wants to meet you.” I was amazed at the coincidence that he would call at exactly the same time.

Later that day, we all met at the beach. I gave him a big hug and told him he looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He now had a pacemaker/defibrillator. I found out he was married and had three teenage boys (who still have a father). He told me on the day of the incident he developed chest pain, weakness, and shortness of breath while surfing, so he came in and sat down at the water’s edge to catch his breath. That was the last thing he remembered. 

When I told him I did mouth-to-mouth on him, he laughed and reassured me that he didn’t have any contagious diseases. Then I asked him about an out-of-body experience, like hovering above his body and watching the CPR. “Did you see us doing that?” I asked. He said: “No, nothing but black. The next thing I remember is waking up in the back of the ambulance, and the paramedic asked me, ‘how does it feel to come back from the dead?’ ” He answered: “I think I have to throw up.”

He was cleared to surf 6 weeks later, and I thought it would be fun to surf with him. But when he started paddling out, he said his defibrillator went off, so he has now retired to golf.

I’ve been a PA in the emergency room for 28 years. I’ve done CPR for so long it’s instinctive for me. It really saves lives, especially with the AED. When people say: “You saved his life,” I say: “No, I didn’t. I just kept him alive and let the AED do its job.”

Ms. Westbrook-May is an emergency medicine physician assistant in Newport Beach, Calif.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

In December 2017, I was a second-year urology resident at Cleveland Clinic. I’d gone to New Delhi to attend my best friend’s wedding. My flight back was New Delhi to Paris to JFK via Air France. I didn’t sleep on the first flight. So, on the second, I wanted to get some rest, because I had to go back to work the next day. I put on a movie and tried to snooze. As the saying goes in residency, you sleep when you can.

About 3 hours later, a flight attendant made an announcement in French, but I didn’t really hear it. Then they announced in English that they needed a physician. I noticed some flight attendants walking frantically around the economy cabin asking, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Turns out there were two – the woman sitting next to me happened to be a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders. I volunteered.

The flight attendant told me a woman was having abdominal pain. I thought it would be something straightforward. Usually, medical emergencies on planes involve chest pain or a panic attack or a vasovagal syncopal episode. Well, I was in for a ride that day.

The woman in pain was traveling from Nigeria. She told me about the abdominal pain. Then she lifted her blanket – she was pregnant. She said she was 37 or 38 weeks in. I said, “Okay, if you’re having this significant abdominal pain, then I need to examine you.” So we decided to move her to the first-class cabin, which was empty (I never did ask why – but it was good we had room to work).

Next step, I went back to my seat and asked the pediatrician if she could assist. My plan was to simply get the passenger through the flight, and as soon as we landed, she would go to the hospital.

There was room to lie down in first class. The pediatrician and I examined her, and she appeared fine. She was traveling with her 4-year-old daughter, and the flight attendants were taking care of her. Everything was okay.

The pilot came back and asked if we would need an emergency landing. I asked him how far it was to JFK – 4 hours. He said the closest place to land would be the Azores Islands, which is Portuguese territory, 2 hours away.

The problem: Even if we made it to the Azores, the hospital there was a very basic facility with no obstetric care available. And by the time the ambulance picked her up and got her there, it would still be 2 or 3 hours total. I said, “No, let’s just observe and continue our course.” Inside my head, I was hoping and praying to God that was the right decision.

Within an hour, everything changed.

The woman’s pain got worse, and she started having contractions. Then her water broke.

Things progressed quickly from there. The contractions progressively got worse and worse. The interval between them got smaller and smaller. The next time we examined her, we could see the baby’s head beginning to crown.

At that point, we had to decide – are we going to deliver? We were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing around us. We were 35,000 feet in the air, surrounded by blue.

The crew wanted us to sign a Good Samaritan agreement. So, we did that. And then I said, “Okay, let’s just go for it.”

We got the plane’s medical kit. They had IV fluids, so I started an IV. I was able to monitor the woman’s blood pressure. They had the usual drugs for doing ACLS [advanced cardiac life support], running the code, and things like that. But they didn’t have a suturing kit or a laceration kit. They didn’t have a scalpel. There was nothing else.

Honestly, there was a lot of panic going through my head. I started thinking about what could go wrong. I’d done an ob.gyn. rotation in medical school and delivered seven babies before it was over. But a plane – even the first-class cabin – is in no way, shape, or form like a delivery room. I was really scared she would hemorrhage out or something.

So, internally, I was having a meltdown. Sij, you have to keep it together right now, because there’s no one else that’s going to do this. Just give it your best shot. And that’s what I did.

I asked the pilot to go to an altitude that would minimize any turbulence, and we were very lucky that the notorious North Atlantic air wasn’t choppy.

More luck: This was the passenger’s second baby, and I was counting on second deliveries being easier. The pediatrician, the flight attendants, and I came together as a team. Two flight attendants had given birth before, so they held the patient’s hand and guided her to push. I was “downstairs” waiting to catch.

She was in some pain. At this point, usually people get an epidural. I kept thinking about what drugs were safe in pregnancy, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if they even had morphine or anything on the plane. We gave her some Tylenol.

It didn’t take long. After about 30 minutes, the baby’s head emerged. I was able to navigate it out, avoiding any shoulder dystocia. There’s a certain technique that you learn in medical school, which thankfully came back to me. I caught it – it was a boy born right there in a first-class seat.

I gave him to the pediatrician, and she did the Apgar score, calculating his breathing and appearance. Then my job was to make sure there were no postpartum complications.

I ended up using a piece of string in the kit to tie around the umbilical cord, and then I cut it with scissors. After that, the woman was able to deliver the placenta. She did have some vaginal bleeding, but that resolved by just holding pressure.

The baby was fine. Mom was doing great. No complications. It was a miracle. I was the right person at the right place at the right time. I just think it was something from God.

The pilot made an announcement, “We’re en route to JFK, and there’s an additional passenger on this plane now.”

When we landed, I had very little time because I had to catch my flight to Cleveland. I didn’t even process what had happened.

A few days later, I got this package from Air France with a very expensive bottle of champagne along with a travel voucher. I heard from the mom by email – she and baby were doing fine.

Eventually, the media relations people at Cleveland Clinic heard about the incident, and it became a story that went viral. That was very weird, because I’m usually someone who’s private. All through my residency, people would introduce me with, “Remember that guy who delivered a baby on a plane? That’s him.”

I’m so thankful for everyone who was on that team. It was very beautiful because it was people from different cultures, backgrounds, and faiths who came together to achieve something so miraculous. The patient was Nigerian. The flight attendants were French. The pediatrician and I were American.

That just shows you the power of teamwork and how humanity can come together. Medicine, surgery – everything, in fact – is a team sport.

Sij Hemal, MD, graduated from urology residency at the Cleveland Clinic and is currently a robotic urologic oncology and minimally invasive surgery fellow at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

A version of this article originally appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

In December 2017, I was a second-year urology resident at Cleveland Clinic. I’d gone to New Delhi to attend my best friend’s wedding. My flight back was New Delhi to Paris to JFK via Air France. I didn’t sleep on the first flight. So, on the second, I wanted to get some rest, because I had to go back to work the next day. I put on a movie and tried to snooze. As the saying goes in residency, you sleep when you can.

About 3 hours later, a flight attendant made an announcement in French, but I didn’t really hear it. Then they announced in English that they needed a physician. I noticed some flight attendants walking frantically around the economy cabin asking, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Turns out there were two – the woman sitting next to me happened to be a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders. I volunteered.

The flight attendant told me a woman was having abdominal pain. I thought it would be something straightforward. Usually, medical emergencies on planes involve chest pain or a panic attack or a vasovagal syncopal episode. Well, I was in for a ride that day.

The woman in pain was traveling from Nigeria. She told me about the abdominal pain. Then she lifted her blanket – she was pregnant. She said she was 37 or 38 weeks in. I said, “Okay, if you’re having this significant abdominal pain, then I need to examine you.” So we decided to move her to the first-class cabin, which was empty (I never did ask why – but it was good we had room to work).

Next step, I went back to my seat and asked the pediatrician if she could assist. My plan was to simply get the passenger through the flight, and as soon as we landed, she would go to the hospital.

There was room to lie down in first class. The pediatrician and I examined her, and she appeared fine. She was traveling with her 4-year-old daughter, and the flight attendants were taking care of her. Everything was okay.

The pilot came back and asked if we would need an emergency landing. I asked him how far it was to JFK – 4 hours. He said the closest place to land would be the Azores Islands, which is Portuguese territory, 2 hours away.

The problem: Even if we made it to the Azores, the hospital there was a very basic facility with no obstetric care available. And by the time the ambulance picked her up and got her there, it would still be 2 or 3 hours total. I said, “No, let’s just observe and continue our course.” Inside my head, I was hoping and praying to God that was the right decision.

Within an hour, everything changed.

The woman’s pain got worse, and she started having contractions. Then her water broke.

Things progressed quickly from there. The contractions progressively got worse and worse. The interval between them got smaller and smaller. The next time we examined her, we could see the baby’s head beginning to crown.

At that point, we had to decide – are we going to deliver? We were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing around us. We were 35,000 feet in the air, surrounded by blue.

The crew wanted us to sign a Good Samaritan agreement. So, we did that. And then I said, “Okay, let’s just go for it.”

We got the plane’s medical kit. They had IV fluids, so I started an IV. I was able to monitor the woman’s blood pressure. They had the usual drugs for doing ACLS [advanced cardiac life support], running the code, and things like that. But they didn’t have a suturing kit or a laceration kit. They didn’t have a scalpel. There was nothing else.

Honestly, there was a lot of panic going through my head. I started thinking about what could go wrong. I’d done an ob.gyn. rotation in medical school and delivered seven babies before it was over. But a plane – even the first-class cabin – is in no way, shape, or form like a delivery room. I was really scared she would hemorrhage out or something.

So, internally, I was having a meltdown. Sij, you have to keep it together right now, because there’s no one else that’s going to do this. Just give it your best shot. And that’s what I did.

I asked the pilot to go to an altitude that would minimize any turbulence, and we were very lucky that the notorious North Atlantic air wasn’t choppy.

More luck: This was the passenger’s second baby, and I was counting on second deliveries being easier. The pediatrician, the flight attendants, and I came together as a team. Two flight attendants had given birth before, so they held the patient’s hand and guided her to push. I was “downstairs” waiting to catch.

She was in some pain. At this point, usually people get an epidural. I kept thinking about what drugs were safe in pregnancy, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if they even had morphine or anything on the plane. We gave her some Tylenol.

It didn’t take long. After about 30 minutes, the baby’s head emerged. I was able to navigate it out, avoiding any shoulder dystocia. There’s a certain technique that you learn in medical school, which thankfully came back to me. I caught it – it was a boy born right there in a first-class seat.

I gave him to the pediatrician, and she did the Apgar score, calculating his breathing and appearance. Then my job was to make sure there were no postpartum complications.

I ended up using a piece of string in the kit to tie around the umbilical cord, and then I cut it with scissors. After that, the woman was able to deliver the placenta. She did have some vaginal bleeding, but that resolved by just holding pressure.

The baby was fine. Mom was doing great. No complications. It was a miracle. I was the right person at the right place at the right time. I just think it was something from God.

The pilot made an announcement, “We’re en route to JFK, and there’s an additional passenger on this plane now.”

When we landed, I had very little time because I had to catch my flight to Cleveland. I didn’t even process what had happened.

A few days later, I got this package from Air France with a very expensive bottle of champagne along with a travel voucher. I heard from the mom by email – she and baby were doing fine.

Eventually, the media relations people at Cleveland Clinic heard about the incident, and it became a story that went viral. That was very weird, because I’m usually someone who’s private. All through my residency, people would introduce me with, “Remember that guy who delivered a baby on a plane? That’s him.”

I’m so thankful for everyone who was on that team. It was very beautiful because it was people from different cultures, backgrounds, and faiths who came together to achieve something so miraculous. The patient was Nigerian. The flight attendants were French. The pediatrician and I were American.

That just shows you the power of teamwork and how humanity can come together. Medicine, surgery – everything, in fact – is a team sport.

Sij Hemal, MD, graduated from urology residency at the Cleveland Clinic and is currently a robotic urologic oncology and minimally invasive surgery fellow at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

A version of this article originally appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes medical professionals find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a series telling these stories.

In December 2017, I was a second-year urology resident at Cleveland Clinic. I’d gone to New Delhi to attend my best friend’s wedding. My flight back was New Delhi to Paris to JFK via Air France. I didn’t sleep on the first flight. So, on the second, I wanted to get some rest, because I had to go back to work the next day. I put on a movie and tried to snooze. As the saying goes in residency, you sleep when you can.

About 3 hours later, a flight attendant made an announcement in French, but I didn’t really hear it. Then they announced in English that they needed a physician. I noticed some flight attendants walking frantically around the economy cabin asking, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Turns out there were two – the woman sitting next to me happened to be a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders. I volunteered.

The flight attendant told me a woman was having abdominal pain. I thought it would be something straightforward. Usually, medical emergencies on planes involve chest pain or a panic attack or a vasovagal syncopal episode. Well, I was in for a ride that day.

The woman in pain was traveling from Nigeria. She told me about the abdominal pain. Then she lifted her blanket – she was pregnant. She said she was 37 or 38 weeks in. I said, “Okay, if you’re having this significant abdominal pain, then I need to examine you.” So we decided to move her to the first-class cabin, which was empty (I never did ask why – but it was good we had room to work).

Next step, I went back to my seat and asked the pediatrician if she could assist. My plan was to simply get the passenger through the flight, and as soon as we landed, she would go to the hospital.

There was room to lie down in first class. The pediatrician and I examined her, and she appeared fine. She was traveling with her 4-year-old daughter, and the flight attendants were taking care of her. Everything was okay.

The pilot came back and asked if we would need an emergency landing. I asked him how far it was to JFK – 4 hours. He said the closest place to land would be the Azores Islands, which is Portuguese territory, 2 hours away.

The problem: Even if we made it to the Azores, the hospital there was a very basic facility with no obstetric care available. And by the time the ambulance picked her up and got her there, it would still be 2 or 3 hours total. I said, “No, let’s just observe and continue our course.” Inside my head, I was hoping and praying to God that was the right decision.

Within an hour, everything changed.

The woman’s pain got worse, and she started having contractions. Then her water broke.

Things progressed quickly from there. The contractions progressively got worse and worse. The interval between them got smaller and smaller. The next time we examined her, we could see the baby’s head beginning to crown.

At that point, we had to decide – are we going to deliver? We were in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. There was nothing around us. We were 35,000 feet in the air, surrounded by blue.

The crew wanted us to sign a Good Samaritan agreement. So, we did that. And then I said, “Okay, let’s just go for it.”

We got the plane’s medical kit. They had IV fluids, so I started an IV. I was able to monitor the woman’s blood pressure. They had the usual drugs for doing ACLS [advanced cardiac life support], running the code, and things like that. But they didn’t have a suturing kit or a laceration kit. They didn’t have a scalpel. There was nothing else.

Honestly, there was a lot of panic going through my head. I started thinking about what could go wrong. I’d done an ob.gyn. rotation in medical school and delivered seven babies before it was over. But a plane – even the first-class cabin – is in no way, shape, or form like a delivery room. I was really scared she would hemorrhage out or something.

So, internally, I was having a meltdown. Sij, you have to keep it together right now, because there’s no one else that’s going to do this. Just give it your best shot. And that’s what I did.

I asked the pilot to go to an altitude that would minimize any turbulence, and we were very lucky that the notorious North Atlantic air wasn’t choppy.

More luck: This was the passenger’s second baby, and I was counting on second deliveries being easier. The pediatrician, the flight attendants, and I came together as a team. Two flight attendants had given birth before, so they held the patient’s hand and guided her to push. I was “downstairs” waiting to catch.

She was in some pain. At this point, usually people get an epidural. I kept thinking about what drugs were safe in pregnancy, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t know if they even had morphine or anything on the plane. We gave her some Tylenol.

It didn’t take long. After about 30 minutes, the baby’s head emerged. I was able to navigate it out, avoiding any shoulder dystocia. There’s a certain technique that you learn in medical school, which thankfully came back to me. I caught it – it was a boy born right there in a first-class seat.

I gave him to the pediatrician, and she did the Apgar score, calculating his breathing and appearance. Then my job was to make sure there were no postpartum complications.

I ended up using a piece of string in the kit to tie around the umbilical cord, and then I cut it with scissors. After that, the woman was able to deliver the placenta. She did have some vaginal bleeding, but that resolved by just holding pressure.

The baby was fine. Mom was doing great. No complications. It was a miracle. I was the right person at the right place at the right time. I just think it was something from God.

The pilot made an announcement, “We’re en route to JFK, and there’s an additional passenger on this plane now.”

When we landed, I had very little time because I had to catch my flight to Cleveland. I didn’t even process what had happened.

A few days later, I got this package from Air France with a very expensive bottle of champagne along with a travel voucher. I heard from the mom by email – she and baby were doing fine.

Eventually, the media relations people at Cleveland Clinic heard about the incident, and it became a story that went viral. That was very weird, because I’m usually someone who’s private. All through my residency, people would introduce me with, “Remember that guy who delivered a baby on a plane? That’s him.”

I’m so thankful for everyone who was on that team. It was very beautiful because it was people from different cultures, backgrounds, and faiths who came together to achieve something so miraculous. The patient was Nigerian. The flight attendants were French. The pediatrician and I were American.

That just shows you the power of teamwork and how humanity can come together. Medicine, surgery – everything, in fact – is a team sport.

Sij Hemal, MD, graduated from urology residency at the Cleveland Clinic and is currently a robotic urologic oncology and minimally invasive surgery fellow at the University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

A version of this article originally appeared on Medscape.com.

Some time ago I was invited to join a bipartisan congressional task force on valley fever, also known as coccidioidomycosis. A large and diverse crowd attended the task force’s first meeting in Bakersfield, Calif. – a meeting for everyone: the medical profession, the public, it even included veterinarians.

The whole thing was a resounding success. Francis Collins was there, the just-retired director of the NIH. Tom Frieden, then-director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was there, as were several congresspeople and also my college roommate, a retired Navy medical corps captain. I was enjoying it.

Afterward, we had a banquet dinner at a restaurant in downtown Bakersfield. One of the people there was a woman I knew well – her husband was a physician friend. The restaurant served steak and salmon, and this woman made the mistake of ordering the steak.

Not long after the entrees were served, I heard a commotion at the table just behind me. I turned around and saw that woman in distress. A piece of steak had wedged in her trachea and she couldn’t breathe.

Almost immediately, the chef showed up. I don’t know how he got there. The chef at this restaurant was a big guy. I mean, probably 6 feet, 5 inches tall and 275 pounds. He tried the Heimlich maneuver. It didn’t work.

At that point, I jumped up. I thought, “Well, maybe I know how to do this better than him.” Probably not, actually. I tried and couldn’t make it work either. So I knew we were going to have to do something.

Paul Krogstad, my friend and research partner who is a pediatric infectious disease physician, stepped up and tried to put his finger in her throat and dig it out. He couldn’t get it. The patient had lost consciousness.

So, I’m thinking, okay, there’s really only one choice. You have to get an airway surgically.

I said, “We have to put her down on the floor.” And then I said, “Knife!”

I was looking at the steak knives on the table and they weren’t to my liking for doing a procedure. My college roommate – the retired Navy man – whipped out this very good pocketknife.

So, there we were, I had Paul Krogstad holding her head, and CDC Director Tom Frieden taking her pulse, which she still had. I took the knife and did a cricothyroidotomy. I had never done this in my life.

While I was making the incision, somebody gave Paul a ballpoint pen and he broke it into pieces to make a tracheostomy tube. Once I’d made the little incision, I put the tube in. She wasn’t breathing, but she still had a pulse.

I leaned forward and blew into the tube and inflated her lungs. I could see her lungs balloon up. It was a nice feeling, because I knew I was clearly in the right place.

I can’t quite explain it, but while I was doing this, I was enormously calm and totally focused. I knew there was a crowd of people around me, all looking at me, but I wasn’t conscious of that.

It was really just the four of us: Paul and Tom and me and our patient. Those were the only people that I was really cognizant of. Paul and Tom were not panic stricken at all. I remember somebody shouting, “We have to start CPR!” and Frieden said, “No. We don’t.”

Moments later, she woke up, sat up, coughed, and shot the piece of steak across the room.

She was breathing on her own, but we still taped that tube into place. Somebody had already summoned an ambulance; they were there not very long after we completed this procedure. I got in the ambulance with her and we rode over to the emergency room at Mercy Truxtun.

She was stable and doing okay. I sat with her until a thoracic surgeon showed up. He checked out the situation and decided we didn’t need that tube and took it out. I didn’t want to take that out until I had a surgeon there who could do a formal tracheostomy.

They kept her in the hospital for 3 or 4 days. Now, this woman had always had difficulties swallowing, so steak may not have been the best choice. She still had trouble swallowing afterward but recovered.

I’ve known her and her husband a long time, so it was certainly rewarding to be able to provide this service. Years later, though, when her husband died, I spoke at his funeral. When she was speaking to the gathering, she said, “And oh, by the way, Royce, thanks for saving my life.”

That surprised me. I didn’t think we were going to go there.

I’d never tried to practice medicine “at the roadside” before. But that’s part of the career.

Royce Johnson, MD, is the chief of the division of infectious disease among other leadership positions at Kern Medical in Bakersfield, Calif., and the medical director of the Valley Fever Institute.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Some time ago I was invited to join a bipartisan congressional task force on valley fever, also known as coccidioidomycosis. A large and diverse crowd attended the task force’s first meeting in Bakersfield, Calif. – a meeting for everyone: the medical profession, the public, it even included veterinarians.

The whole thing was a resounding success. Francis Collins was there, the just-retired director of the NIH. Tom Frieden, then-director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was there, as were several congresspeople and also my college roommate, a retired Navy medical corps captain. I was enjoying it.

Afterward, we had a banquet dinner at a restaurant in downtown Bakersfield. One of the people there was a woman I knew well – her husband was a physician friend. The restaurant served steak and salmon, and this woman made the mistake of ordering the steak.

Not long after the entrees were served, I heard a commotion at the table just behind me. I turned around and saw that woman in distress. A piece of steak had wedged in her trachea and she couldn’t breathe.

Almost immediately, the chef showed up. I don’t know how he got there. The chef at this restaurant was a big guy. I mean, probably 6 feet, 5 inches tall and 275 pounds. He tried the Heimlich maneuver. It didn’t work.

At that point, I jumped up. I thought, “Well, maybe I know how to do this better than him.” Probably not, actually. I tried and couldn’t make it work either. So I knew we were going to have to do something.

Paul Krogstad, my friend and research partner who is a pediatric infectious disease physician, stepped up and tried to put his finger in her throat and dig it out. He couldn’t get it. The patient had lost consciousness.

So, I’m thinking, okay, there’s really only one choice. You have to get an airway surgically.

I said, “We have to put her down on the floor.” And then I said, “Knife!”

I was looking at the steak knives on the table and they weren’t to my liking for doing a procedure. My college roommate – the retired Navy man – whipped out this very good pocketknife.

So, there we were, I had Paul Krogstad holding her head, and CDC Director Tom Frieden taking her pulse, which she still had. I took the knife and did a cricothyroidotomy. I had never done this in my life.

While I was making the incision, somebody gave Paul a ballpoint pen and he broke it into pieces to make a tracheostomy tube. Once I’d made the little incision, I put the tube in. She wasn’t breathing, but she still had a pulse.

I leaned forward and blew into the tube and inflated her lungs. I could see her lungs balloon up. It was a nice feeling, because I knew I was clearly in the right place.

I can’t quite explain it, but while I was doing this, I was enormously calm and totally focused. I knew there was a crowd of people around me, all looking at me, but I wasn’t conscious of that.

It was really just the four of us: Paul and Tom and me and our patient. Those were the only people that I was really cognizant of. Paul and Tom were not panic stricken at all. I remember somebody shouting, “We have to start CPR!” and Frieden said, “No. We don’t.”

Moments later, she woke up, sat up, coughed, and shot the piece of steak across the room.

She was breathing on her own, but we still taped that tube into place. Somebody had already summoned an ambulance; they were there not very long after we completed this procedure. I got in the ambulance with her and we rode over to the emergency room at Mercy Truxtun.

She was stable and doing okay. I sat with her until a thoracic surgeon showed up. He checked out the situation and decided we didn’t need that tube and took it out. I didn’t want to take that out until I had a surgeon there who could do a formal tracheostomy.

They kept her in the hospital for 3 or 4 days. Now, this woman had always had difficulties swallowing, so steak may not have been the best choice. She still had trouble swallowing afterward but recovered.

I’ve known her and her husband a long time, so it was certainly rewarding to be able to provide this service. Years later, though, when her husband died, I spoke at his funeral. When she was speaking to the gathering, she said, “And oh, by the way, Royce, thanks for saving my life.”

That surprised me. I didn’t think we were going to go there.

I’d never tried to practice medicine “at the roadside” before. But that’s part of the career.

Royce Johnson, MD, is the chief of the division of infectious disease among other leadership positions at Kern Medical in Bakersfield, Calif., and the medical director of the Valley Fever Institute.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Some time ago I was invited to join a bipartisan congressional task force on valley fever, also known as coccidioidomycosis. A large and diverse crowd attended the task force’s first meeting in Bakersfield, Calif. – a meeting for everyone: the medical profession, the public, it even included veterinarians.

The whole thing was a resounding success. Francis Collins was there, the just-retired director of the NIH. Tom Frieden, then-director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was there, as were several congresspeople and also my college roommate, a retired Navy medical corps captain. I was enjoying it.

Afterward, we had a banquet dinner at a restaurant in downtown Bakersfield. One of the people there was a woman I knew well – her husband was a physician friend. The restaurant served steak and salmon, and this woman made the mistake of ordering the steak.

Not long after the entrees were served, I heard a commotion at the table just behind me. I turned around and saw that woman in distress. A piece of steak had wedged in her trachea and she couldn’t breathe.

Almost immediately, the chef showed up. I don’t know how he got there. The chef at this restaurant was a big guy. I mean, probably 6 feet, 5 inches tall and 275 pounds. He tried the Heimlich maneuver. It didn’t work.

At that point, I jumped up. I thought, “Well, maybe I know how to do this better than him.” Probably not, actually. I tried and couldn’t make it work either. So I knew we were going to have to do something.

Paul Krogstad, my friend and research partner who is a pediatric infectious disease physician, stepped up and tried to put his finger in her throat and dig it out. He couldn’t get it. The patient had lost consciousness.

So, I’m thinking, okay, there’s really only one choice. You have to get an airway surgically.

I said, “We have to put her down on the floor.” And then I said, “Knife!”

I was looking at the steak knives on the table and they weren’t to my liking for doing a procedure. My college roommate – the retired Navy man – whipped out this very good pocketknife.

So, there we were, I had Paul Krogstad holding her head, and CDC Director Tom Frieden taking her pulse, which she still had. I took the knife and did a cricothyroidotomy. I had never done this in my life.

While I was making the incision, somebody gave Paul a ballpoint pen and he broke it into pieces to make a tracheostomy tube. Once I’d made the little incision, I put the tube in. She wasn’t breathing, but she still had a pulse.

I leaned forward and blew into the tube and inflated her lungs. I could see her lungs balloon up. It was a nice feeling, because I knew I was clearly in the right place.

I can’t quite explain it, but while I was doing this, I was enormously calm and totally focused. I knew there was a crowd of people around me, all looking at me, but I wasn’t conscious of that.

It was really just the four of us: Paul and Tom and me and our patient. Those were the only people that I was really cognizant of. Paul and Tom were not panic stricken at all. I remember somebody shouting, “We have to start CPR!” and Frieden said, “No. We don’t.”

Moments later, she woke up, sat up, coughed, and shot the piece of steak across the room.

She was breathing on her own, but we still taped that tube into place. Somebody had already summoned an ambulance; they were there not very long after we completed this procedure. I got in the ambulance with her and we rode over to the emergency room at Mercy Truxtun.

She was stable and doing okay. I sat with her until a thoracic surgeon showed up. He checked out the situation and decided we didn’t need that tube and took it out. I didn’t want to take that out until I had a surgeon there who could do a formal tracheostomy.

They kept her in the hospital for 3 or 4 days. Now, this woman had always had difficulties swallowing, so steak may not have been the best choice. She still had trouble swallowing afterward but recovered.

I’ve known her and her husband a long time, so it was certainly rewarding to be able to provide this service. Years later, though, when her husband died, I spoke at his funeral. When she was speaking to the gathering, she said, “And oh, by the way, Royce, thanks for saving my life.”

That surprised me. I didn’t think we were going to go there.

I’d never tried to practice medicine “at the roadside” before. But that’s part of the career.

Royce Johnson, MD, is the chief of the division of infectious disease among other leadership positions at Kern Medical in Bakersfield, Calif., and the medical director of the Valley Fever Institute.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes physicians find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape series telling these stories.

I was coming off a 48-hour shift plus a day of doing outpatient sedation at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. It was December and Michigan-cold. The roads were fine – no snow – but I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on the freeway. Then I saw smoke coming from an overpass up ahead.

I drove on the side of the road where I wasn’t really supposed to and got closer. An SUV had crashed into one of the big concrete structures under the bridge. I saw people running around but wasn’t able to spot EMS or any health care workers. From where I was, I could identify four kids who had already been extricated and one adult still in the driver’s seat. I estimated the kids’ ages were around 7, 5, 3, and an infant who was a few months old. I left my car and went to help.

I was able to peg the ages correctly because I’m a pediatric critical care physician. As a specialty, we’re not commonly known. We oversee patient care in intensive care units, except the patients are children. Part of the job is that we’re experts at triaging. We recognize what’s life-threatening and less so.

The kids were with some adults who kept them warm with blankets. I examined each of them. The infant was asleep but arousable and acting like a normal baby. The 3-year-old boy was vomiting and appeared very fatigued. The 5-year-old boy had a forehead laceration and was in and out of consciousness. The 7-year-old girl was screaming because of different injuries.

While all of the children were concerning to me, I identified one in particular: the 5-year-old boy. It was obvious he needed serious medical attention and fast. So, I kept that little guy in mind. The others had sustained significant injuries, but my best guess was they could get to a hospital and be stabilized.

That said, I’m a trauma instructor, and one of the things I always tell trainees is: Trauma is a black box. On the outside, it may seem like a patient doesn’t have a lot of injuries. But underneath, there might be something worse, like a brain injury. Or the chest might have taken a blunt impact affecting the heart. There may be internal bleeding somewhere in the belly. It’s really hard to tease out what exactly is going on without equipment and testing.

I didn’t even have a pulse oximeter or heart rate monitor. I pretty much just went by the appearance of the child: pulse, heart rate, awareness, things like that.

After the kids, I moved to look at the man in the car. The front end had already caught fire. I could see the driver – the kids’ father, I guessed – unconscious and hunched over. I was wondering, Why hasn’t this guy been extricated?

I approached the car on the front passenger side. And then I just had this feeling. I knew I needed to step back. Immediately.

I did. And a few seconds later, the whole car exploded in flames.

I believe God is in control of everything. I tried to get to that man. But the scene was unsafe. Later I learned that several people, including a young nurse at the scene, had tried to get to him as well.

When EMS came, I identified myself. Obviously, these people do very, very important work. But they may be more used to the 60-year-old heart attack, the 25-year-old gunshot wound, the occasional ill child. I thought that four kids – each with possible critical poly-traumatic injuries – posed a challenge to anyone.

I told them, “This is what I do on a daily basis, and this is the kid I’m worried about the most. The other kids are definitely worrisome, but I would prioritize getting this kid to the hospital first. Can I ride with you?” They agreed.

We got that boy and his older sister into the first ambulance (she was in a lot of pain, the result of a femur fracture). The two other kids rode in the second ambulance. The hospital where I had just left was 10 minutes away. I called the other pediatric critical care doctor there, my partner. He thought I was calling for a routine issue – no such luck. I said, “I’m with four kids who are level-1 traumas in two ambulances and I’m heading to the hospital right now, ETA 10 minutes.”

En route, I thought the little boy might lose consciousness at any moment. He needed a breathing tube, and I debated whether it should be done in the ambulance vs. waiting until we got to the emergency room. Based on my judgment and his vital signs, I elected to wait to have it done it in a more controlled environment. Had I felt like he was in immediate need of an airway, I would’ve attempted it. But those are the tough calls that you must make.

My partner had alerted the trauma and emergency medicine teams at the hospital. By the time we arrived, my partner was down in the ER with the trauma team and ER staff. Everyone was ready. Then it was like divide and conquer. He attended to one of the kids. The ER team and I were with the little guy I was really worried about. We had his breathing tube in within minutes. The trauma team attended to the other two.

All the kids were stabilized and then admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. I’m happy to say that all of them did well in the end. Even the little guy I was worried about the most.

I must say this incident gave me perspective on what EMS goes through. The field medicine we do in the United States is still in its infancy in a lot of ways. One of the things I would love to see in the future is a mobile ICU. After a critical illness hits, sometimes you only have seconds, minutes, maybe hours if you’re lucky. The earlier you can get patients the treatment they need, the better the outcomes.

I like taking care of critically ill children and their families. It fits my personality. And it’s a wonderful cause. But you have to be ready for tragic cases like this one. Yes, the children came out alive, but the accident claimed a life in a horrible way. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Critical care takes an emotional, psychological, and physical toll. It’s a roller coaster: Some kids do well; some kids don’t do well. All I can do is hold myself accountable. I keep my emotions in check, whether the outcome is positive or negative. And I do my best.
 

Mohamed Hani Farhat, MD, is a pediatric critical care physician at the University of Michigan C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor and Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich. Are you a physician with a dramatic medical story outside the clinic? Medscape would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary of your story to access@webmd.net . A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes physicians find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape series telling these stories.

I was coming off a 48-hour shift plus a day of doing outpatient sedation at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. It was December and Michigan-cold. The roads were fine – no snow – but I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on the freeway. Then I saw smoke coming from an overpass up ahead.

I drove on the side of the road where I wasn’t really supposed to and got closer. An SUV had crashed into one of the big concrete structures under the bridge. I saw people running around but wasn’t able to spot EMS or any health care workers. From where I was, I could identify four kids who had already been extricated and one adult still in the driver’s seat. I estimated the kids’ ages were around 7, 5, 3, and an infant who was a few months old. I left my car and went to help.

I was able to peg the ages correctly because I’m a pediatric critical care physician. As a specialty, we’re not commonly known. We oversee patient care in intensive care units, except the patients are children. Part of the job is that we’re experts at triaging. We recognize what’s life-threatening and less so.

The kids were with some adults who kept them warm with blankets. I examined each of them. The infant was asleep but arousable and acting like a normal baby. The 3-year-old boy was vomiting and appeared very fatigued. The 5-year-old boy had a forehead laceration and was in and out of consciousness. The 7-year-old girl was screaming because of different injuries.

While all of the children were concerning to me, I identified one in particular: the 5-year-old boy. It was obvious he needed serious medical attention and fast. So, I kept that little guy in mind. The others had sustained significant injuries, but my best guess was they could get to a hospital and be stabilized.

That said, I’m a trauma instructor, and one of the things I always tell trainees is: Trauma is a black box. On the outside, it may seem like a patient doesn’t have a lot of injuries. But underneath, there might be something worse, like a brain injury. Or the chest might have taken a blunt impact affecting the heart. There may be internal bleeding somewhere in the belly. It’s really hard to tease out what exactly is going on without equipment and testing.

I didn’t even have a pulse oximeter or heart rate monitor. I pretty much just went by the appearance of the child: pulse, heart rate, awareness, things like that.

After the kids, I moved to look at the man in the car. The front end had already caught fire. I could see the driver – the kids’ father, I guessed – unconscious and hunched over. I was wondering, Why hasn’t this guy been extricated?

I approached the car on the front passenger side. And then I just had this feeling. I knew I needed to step back. Immediately.

I did. And a few seconds later, the whole car exploded in flames.

I believe God is in control of everything. I tried to get to that man. But the scene was unsafe. Later I learned that several people, including a young nurse at the scene, had tried to get to him as well.

When EMS came, I identified myself. Obviously, these people do very, very important work. But they may be more used to the 60-year-old heart attack, the 25-year-old gunshot wound, the occasional ill child. I thought that four kids – each with possible critical poly-traumatic injuries – posed a challenge to anyone.

I told them, “This is what I do on a daily basis, and this is the kid I’m worried about the most. The other kids are definitely worrisome, but I would prioritize getting this kid to the hospital first. Can I ride with you?” They agreed.

We got that boy and his older sister into the first ambulance (she was in a lot of pain, the result of a femur fracture). The two other kids rode in the second ambulance. The hospital where I had just left was 10 minutes away. I called the other pediatric critical care doctor there, my partner. He thought I was calling for a routine issue – no such luck. I said, “I’m with four kids who are level-1 traumas in two ambulances and I’m heading to the hospital right now, ETA 10 minutes.”

En route, I thought the little boy might lose consciousness at any moment. He needed a breathing tube, and I debated whether it should be done in the ambulance vs. waiting until we got to the emergency room. Based on my judgment and his vital signs, I elected to wait to have it done it in a more controlled environment. Had I felt like he was in immediate need of an airway, I would’ve attempted it. But those are the tough calls that you must make.

My partner had alerted the trauma and emergency medicine teams at the hospital. By the time we arrived, my partner was down in the ER with the trauma team and ER staff. Everyone was ready. Then it was like divide and conquer. He attended to one of the kids. The ER team and I were with the little guy I was really worried about. We had his breathing tube in within minutes. The trauma team attended to the other two.

All the kids were stabilized and then admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. I’m happy to say that all of them did well in the end. Even the little guy I was worried about the most.

I must say this incident gave me perspective on what EMS goes through. The field medicine we do in the United States is still in its infancy in a lot of ways. One of the things I would love to see in the future is a mobile ICU. After a critical illness hits, sometimes you only have seconds, minutes, maybe hours if you’re lucky. The earlier you can get patients the treatment they need, the better the outcomes.

I like taking care of critically ill children and their families. It fits my personality. And it’s a wonderful cause. But you have to be ready for tragic cases like this one. Yes, the children came out alive, but the accident claimed a life in a horrible way. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Critical care takes an emotional, psychological, and physical toll. It’s a roller coaster: Some kids do well; some kids don’t do well. All I can do is hold myself accountable. I keep my emotions in check, whether the outcome is positive or negative. And I do my best.
 

Mohamed Hani Farhat, MD, is a pediatric critical care physician at the University of Michigan C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor and Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich. Are you a physician with a dramatic medical story outside the clinic? Medscape would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary of your story to access@webmd.net . A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

Emergencies happen anywhere, anytime, and sometimes physicians find themselves in situations where they are the only ones who can help. Is There a Doctor in the House? is a Medscape series telling these stories.

I was coming off a 48-hour shift plus a day of doing outpatient sedation at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing. It was December and Michigan-cold. The roads were fine – no snow – but I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on the freeway. Then I saw smoke coming from an overpass up ahead.

I drove on the side of the road where I wasn’t really supposed to and got closer. An SUV had crashed into one of the big concrete structures under the bridge. I saw people running around but wasn’t able to spot EMS or any health care workers. From where I was, I could identify four kids who had already been extricated and one adult still in the driver’s seat. I estimated the kids’ ages were around 7, 5, 3, and an infant who was a few months old. I left my car and went to help.

I was able to peg the ages correctly because I’m a pediatric critical care physician. As a specialty, we’re not commonly known. We oversee patient care in intensive care units, except the patients are children. Part of the job is that we’re experts at triaging. We recognize what’s life-threatening and less so.

The kids were with some adults who kept them warm with blankets. I examined each of them. The infant was asleep but arousable and acting like a normal baby. The 3-year-old boy was vomiting and appeared very fatigued. The 5-year-old boy had a forehead laceration and was in and out of consciousness. The 7-year-old girl was screaming because of different injuries.

While all of the children were concerning to me, I identified one in particular: the 5-year-old boy. It was obvious he needed serious medical attention and fast. So, I kept that little guy in mind. The others had sustained significant injuries, but my best guess was they could get to a hospital and be stabilized.

That said, I’m a trauma instructor, and one of the things I always tell trainees is: Trauma is a black box. On the outside, it may seem like a patient doesn’t have a lot of injuries. But underneath, there might be something worse, like a brain injury. Or the chest might have taken a blunt impact affecting the heart. There may be internal bleeding somewhere in the belly. It’s really hard to tease out what exactly is going on without equipment and testing.

I didn’t even have a pulse oximeter or heart rate monitor. I pretty much just went by the appearance of the child: pulse, heart rate, awareness, things like that.

After the kids, I moved to look at the man in the car. The front end had already caught fire. I could see the driver – the kids’ father, I guessed – unconscious and hunched over. I was wondering, Why hasn’t this guy been extricated?

I approached the car on the front passenger side. And then I just had this feeling. I knew I needed to step back. Immediately.

I did. And a few seconds later, the whole car exploded in flames.

I believe God is in control of everything. I tried to get to that man. But the scene was unsafe. Later I learned that several people, including a young nurse at the scene, had tried to get to him as well.

When EMS came, I identified myself. Obviously, these people do very, very important work. But they may be more used to the 60-year-old heart attack, the 25-year-old gunshot wound, the occasional ill child. I thought that four kids – each with possible critical poly-traumatic injuries – posed a challenge to anyone.

I told them, “This is what I do on a daily basis, and this is the kid I’m worried about the most. The other kids are definitely worrisome, but I would prioritize getting this kid to the hospital first. Can I ride with you?” They agreed.

We got that boy and his older sister into the first ambulance (she was in a lot of pain, the result of a femur fracture). The two other kids rode in the second ambulance. The hospital where I had just left was 10 minutes away. I called the other pediatric critical care doctor there, my partner. He thought I was calling for a routine issue – no such luck. I said, “I’m with four kids who are level-1 traumas in two ambulances and I’m heading to the hospital right now, ETA 10 minutes.”

En route, I thought the little boy might lose consciousness at any moment. He needed a breathing tube, and I debated whether it should be done in the ambulance vs. waiting until we got to the emergency room. Based on my judgment and his vital signs, I elected to wait to have it done it in a more controlled environment. Had I felt like he was in immediate need of an airway, I would’ve attempted it. But those are the tough calls that you must make.

My partner had alerted the trauma and emergency medicine teams at the hospital. By the time we arrived, my partner was down in the ER with the trauma team and ER staff. Everyone was ready. Then it was like divide and conquer. He attended to one of the kids. The ER team and I were with the little guy I was really worried about. We had his breathing tube in within minutes. The trauma team attended to the other two.

All the kids were stabilized and then admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit. I’m happy to say that all of them did well in the end. Even the little guy I was worried about the most.

I must say this incident gave me perspective on what EMS goes through. The field medicine we do in the United States is still in its infancy in a lot of ways. One of the things I would love to see in the future is a mobile ICU. After a critical illness hits, sometimes you only have seconds, minutes, maybe hours if you’re lucky. The earlier you can get patients the treatment they need, the better the outcomes.

I like taking care of critically ill children and their families. It fits my personality. And it’s a wonderful cause. But you have to be ready for tragic cases like this one. Yes, the children came out alive, but the accident claimed a life in a horrible way. And there was nothing I could do about it.

Critical care takes an emotional, psychological, and physical toll. It’s a roller coaster: Some kids do well; some kids don’t do well. All I can do is hold myself accountable. I keep my emotions in check, whether the outcome is positive or negative. And I do my best.
 

Mohamed Hani Farhat, MD, is a pediatric critical care physician at the University of Michigan C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor and Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Mich. Are you a physician with a dramatic medical story outside the clinic? Medscape would love to consider your story for Is There a Doctor in the House? Please email your contact information and a short summary of your story to access@webmd.net . A version of this article appeared on Medscape.com.

North central Washington state is a lot of nothing other than fields. Every year, the Federal Aviation Administration closes the airspace in a remote part of the area for a model rocket competition, the National Association of Rocketry Annual Meet. It’s a 2-day event and a pretty big deal. People come from all over the country to be there.

When you were a kid, you probably saw those rockets that are 3 feet tall. You launch them up in the air, they have a little parachute that comes out and they come back down to the ground. Well, picture that on ultimate steroids. There are anywhere from 3-foot to almost 20-foot-long rockets at this thing. People show up with horse trailers full of rockets and components. I mean, it’s an obsession.

Some of these rockets are super sophisticated. They have different stages where the first stage burns out and the second takes over. They go up thousands of feet to the edge of the stratosphere. Most of them have GoPro cameras, so you get to see when the rocket reaches the top of its trajectory and the last engine burns out. As it starts to descend, a parachute deploys and it can drift back anywhere from pretty close to where you launched it to a couple miles away. Then you use your little GPS to find it.

I have a nephew who worked for Boeing, and he and his son had a 6-foot entry in this competition. He invited me to come out and see it go off. Why not? I drove out there and parked my Jeep and was walking over to the competition when I noticed something off. A bigger commotion than there should have been.

Here’s what happened 2 minutes before I got there:

A 5-foot-long rocket, 2½ inches in diameter, had reached the top of its several thousand–foot trajectory and was ready to come back to Earth. But its parachute didn’t deploy. It turned itself point-down and literally shot back to earth like a rocket.

It had gone up pretty darn straight and came down just as straight – right into a circle of people sitting in lawn chairs.

It hit a middle-aged man. But you can’t imagine how. First of all, who knows how fast it was going. The point glanced off his forehead and ... how to describe the rest. The man was pretty heavy. So the rocket impaled him through the abdomen and stuck right into the ground. As in, the point entered the top of his belly just below chest level and came out the bottom of his belly. The rocket pinned him to the ground through his belly.

Well, this was not how I planned on spending my day. But my spectator time was over. There were a lot of people running around in circles where he was pinned, not really knowing what to do.

When I said I was an emergency physician, instantly 15 heads looked right at me for direction like, Oh my gosh, please take over! A lot of people were asking: “What can I do? What can I do?” I said: “Well, we don’t need to do CPR. What we really need to do is get this rocket out of the ground. We need to keep him still while we dig out the rocket and get him flat.”

People gently dug around the nose of the rocket. It was in about 6 or 8 inches, enough that we didn’t want to just yank on it (I still marvel at how fast it must have been traveling to both impale the man the way it did and also jam into the ground like that). We wanted to loosen it up and ease it out of the ground.

We managed to dig the nose out and get the guy on his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t particularly comfortable. He looked pretty ashen, like he was in pretty good trouble.

The festival had an EMS kit with some bandages in it, but not a whole lot else. There’s the old joke in emergency medicine: What can you do with duct tape, a Swiss army knife, and a paper clip? It’s like, what has anybody got that might work here?

What we really needed to do was keep both the rocket and the man from moving. We cut off his shirt and got his pants down so that I could better see where it entered and exited. Then we used a couple of clean T-shirts to stabilize the rocket so it didn’t move while he lay flat. It didn’t bleed all that much. And his belly wasn’t massively expanding like he was bleeding internally. I mean, he looked crappy. But so would I!

We were about an hour away from the closest EMS and only a couple people even had cell service out there. But we managed to get hold of EMS. It was also one of those 92-degree days with no shade for 50 miles in any direction.

There was a volunteer firefighter there to man the fire rig. He helped carry the guy into an air-conditioned trailer without moving him very much.

Basically, we stabilized him by keeping him super still and as comfortable as we could until EMS arrived. I rode with him about an hour and a half to the closest trauma center in Central Washington. He was conscious, which was lousy for him but reassuring for me. “You’re still talking to me,” I said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

One of the take-home points from a medical point of view is never try to remove something sticking out of someone when you’re out in the field. If it’s pushing against something vital, you could do a lot of damage, and if it’s up against a blood vessel, that vessel’s going to bleed uncontrollably.

We got to the trauma center and they took him to the OR. By the grace of friendships, somebody got his wife to the hospital. She was calmer than I think I would have been if my spouse had been hit by a rocket.

The full diagnostic story: The rocket bouncing off his forehead gave him a small skull fracture and slight concussion. That was no big deal. But picture this: The rocket only went through his belly fat. It didn’t hit any of his abdominal organs! I still think this is absolutely amazing. If he had been leaning forward in his lawn chair even a few inches, the rocket would’ve gone through his head and that would’ve been all they wrote.

He stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. I never saw him again, but I received follow-up from the surgeon. And I read the paper the next day. Let me tell you, in Central Washington, this is pretty big news.

It wasn’t the way I’d planned my morning. But you just can’t predict that kind of thing. I don’t know, maybe spiritually or karma wise, I was meant to show up about 90 seconds after he’d been hit. The only emergency physician at the whole event, just by chance. My work blesses me with a certain skill set. I know when to really worry, how to go about keeping somebody safe until you can get them to the ED. It’s something I thank my stars for every single day.

As I said to the guy on the way to the hospital: “Well, it’s not your lucky day, but it sure as heck could have been a whole lot unluckier.”

Stephen Anderson, MD, is an emergency medicine physician in Auburn, Washington and is affiliated with MultiCare Auburn Medical Center.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

North central Washington state is a lot of nothing other than fields. Every year, the Federal Aviation Administration closes the airspace in a remote part of the area for a model rocket competition, the National Association of Rocketry Annual Meet. It’s a 2-day event and a pretty big deal. People come from all over the country to be there.

When you were a kid, you probably saw those rockets that are 3 feet tall. You launch them up in the air, they have a little parachute that comes out and they come back down to the ground. Well, picture that on ultimate steroids. There are anywhere from 3-foot to almost 20-foot-long rockets at this thing. People show up with horse trailers full of rockets and components. I mean, it’s an obsession.

Some of these rockets are super sophisticated. They have different stages where the first stage burns out and the second takes over. They go up thousands of feet to the edge of the stratosphere. Most of them have GoPro cameras, so you get to see when the rocket reaches the top of its trajectory and the last engine burns out. As it starts to descend, a parachute deploys and it can drift back anywhere from pretty close to where you launched it to a couple miles away. Then you use your little GPS to find it.

I have a nephew who worked for Boeing, and he and his son had a 6-foot entry in this competition. He invited me to come out and see it go off. Why not? I drove out there and parked my Jeep and was walking over to the competition when I noticed something off. A bigger commotion than there should have been.

Here’s what happened 2 minutes before I got there:

A 5-foot-long rocket, 2½ inches in diameter, had reached the top of its several thousand–foot trajectory and was ready to come back to Earth. But its parachute didn’t deploy. It turned itself point-down and literally shot back to earth like a rocket.

It had gone up pretty darn straight and came down just as straight – right into a circle of people sitting in lawn chairs.

It hit a middle-aged man. But you can’t imagine how. First of all, who knows how fast it was going. The point glanced off his forehead and ... how to describe the rest. The man was pretty heavy. So the rocket impaled him through the abdomen and stuck right into the ground. As in, the point entered the top of his belly just below chest level and came out the bottom of his belly. The rocket pinned him to the ground through his belly.

Well, this was not how I planned on spending my day. But my spectator time was over. There were a lot of people running around in circles where he was pinned, not really knowing what to do.

When I said I was an emergency physician, instantly 15 heads looked right at me for direction like, Oh my gosh, please take over! A lot of people were asking: “What can I do? What can I do?” I said: “Well, we don’t need to do CPR. What we really need to do is get this rocket out of the ground. We need to keep him still while we dig out the rocket and get him flat.”

People gently dug around the nose of the rocket. It was in about 6 or 8 inches, enough that we didn’t want to just yank on it (I still marvel at how fast it must have been traveling to both impale the man the way it did and also jam into the ground like that). We wanted to loosen it up and ease it out of the ground.

We managed to dig the nose out and get the guy on his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t particularly comfortable. He looked pretty ashen, like he was in pretty good trouble.

The festival had an EMS kit with some bandages in it, but not a whole lot else. There’s the old joke in emergency medicine: What can you do with duct tape, a Swiss army knife, and a paper clip? It’s like, what has anybody got that might work here?

What we really needed to do was keep both the rocket and the man from moving. We cut off his shirt and got his pants down so that I could better see where it entered and exited. Then we used a couple of clean T-shirts to stabilize the rocket so it didn’t move while he lay flat. It didn’t bleed all that much. And his belly wasn’t massively expanding like he was bleeding internally. I mean, he looked crappy. But so would I!

We were about an hour away from the closest EMS and only a couple people even had cell service out there. But we managed to get hold of EMS. It was also one of those 92-degree days with no shade for 50 miles in any direction.

There was a volunteer firefighter there to man the fire rig. He helped carry the guy into an air-conditioned trailer without moving him very much.

Basically, we stabilized him by keeping him super still and as comfortable as we could until EMS arrived. I rode with him about an hour and a half to the closest trauma center in Central Washington. He was conscious, which was lousy for him but reassuring for me. “You’re still talking to me,” I said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

One of the take-home points from a medical point of view is never try to remove something sticking out of someone when you’re out in the field. If it’s pushing against something vital, you could do a lot of damage, and if it’s up against a blood vessel, that vessel’s going to bleed uncontrollably.

We got to the trauma center and they took him to the OR. By the grace of friendships, somebody got his wife to the hospital. She was calmer than I think I would have been if my spouse had been hit by a rocket.

The full diagnostic story: The rocket bouncing off his forehead gave him a small skull fracture and slight concussion. That was no big deal. But picture this: The rocket only went through his belly fat. It didn’t hit any of his abdominal organs! I still think this is absolutely amazing. If he had been leaning forward in his lawn chair even a few inches, the rocket would’ve gone through his head and that would’ve been all they wrote.

He stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. I never saw him again, but I received follow-up from the surgeon. And I read the paper the next day. Let me tell you, in Central Washington, this is pretty big news.

It wasn’t the way I’d planned my morning. But you just can’t predict that kind of thing. I don’t know, maybe spiritually or karma wise, I was meant to show up about 90 seconds after he’d been hit. The only emergency physician at the whole event, just by chance. My work blesses me with a certain skill set. I know when to really worry, how to go about keeping somebody safe until you can get them to the ED. It’s something I thank my stars for every single day.

As I said to the guy on the way to the hospital: “Well, it’s not your lucky day, but it sure as heck could have been a whole lot unluckier.”

Stephen Anderson, MD, is an emergency medicine physician in Auburn, Washington and is affiliated with MultiCare Auburn Medical Center.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.

North central Washington state is a lot of nothing other than fields. Every year, the Federal Aviation Administration closes the airspace in a remote part of the area for a model rocket competition, the National Association of Rocketry Annual Meet. It’s a 2-day event and a pretty big deal. People come from all over the country to be there.

When you were a kid, you probably saw those rockets that are 3 feet tall. You launch them up in the air, they have a little parachute that comes out and they come back down to the ground. Well, picture that on ultimate steroids. There are anywhere from 3-foot to almost 20-foot-long rockets at this thing. People show up with horse trailers full of rockets and components. I mean, it’s an obsession.

Some of these rockets are super sophisticated. They have different stages where the first stage burns out and the second takes over. They go up thousands of feet to the edge of the stratosphere. Most of them have GoPro cameras, so you get to see when the rocket reaches the top of its trajectory and the last engine burns out. As it starts to descend, a parachute deploys and it can drift back anywhere from pretty close to where you launched it to a couple miles away. Then you use your little GPS to find it.

I have a nephew who worked for Boeing, and he and his son had a 6-foot entry in this competition. He invited me to come out and see it go off. Why not? I drove out there and parked my Jeep and was walking over to the competition when I noticed something off. A bigger commotion than there should have been.

Here’s what happened 2 minutes before I got there:

A 5-foot-long rocket, 2½ inches in diameter, had reached the top of its several thousand–foot trajectory and was ready to come back to Earth. But its parachute didn’t deploy. It turned itself point-down and literally shot back to earth like a rocket.

It had gone up pretty darn straight and came down just as straight – right into a circle of people sitting in lawn chairs.

It hit a middle-aged man. But you can’t imagine how. First of all, who knows how fast it was going. The point glanced off his forehead and ... how to describe the rest. The man was pretty heavy. So the rocket impaled him through the abdomen and stuck right into the ground. As in, the point entered the top of his belly just below chest level and came out the bottom of his belly. The rocket pinned him to the ground through his belly.

Well, this was not how I planned on spending my day. But my spectator time was over. There were a lot of people running around in circles where he was pinned, not really knowing what to do.

When I said I was an emergency physician, instantly 15 heads looked right at me for direction like, Oh my gosh, please take over! A lot of people were asking: “What can I do? What can I do?” I said: “Well, we don’t need to do CPR. What we really need to do is get this rocket out of the ground. We need to keep him still while we dig out the rocket and get him flat.”

People gently dug around the nose of the rocket. It was in about 6 or 8 inches, enough that we didn’t want to just yank on it (I still marvel at how fast it must have been traveling to both impale the man the way it did and also jam into the ground like that). We wanted to loosen it up and ease it out of the ground.

We managed to dig the nose out and get the guy on his back. Needless to say, he wasn’t particularly comfortable. He looked pretty ashen, like he was in pretty good trouble.

The festival had an EMS kit with some bandages in it, but not a whole lot else. There’s the old joke in emergency medicine: What can you do with duct tape, a Swiss army knife, and a paper clip? It’s like, what has anybody got that might work here?

What we really needed to do was keep both the rocket and the man from moving. We cut off his shirt and got his pants down so that I could better see where it entered and exited. Then we used a couple of clean T-shirts to stabilize the rocket so it didn’t move while he lay flat. It didn’t bleed all that much. And his belly wasn’t massively expanding like he was bleeding internally. I mean, he looked crappy. But so would I!

We were about an hour away from the closest EMS and only a couple people even had cell service out there. But we managed to get hold of EMS. It was also one of those 92-degree days with no shade for 50 miles in any direction.

There was a volunteer firefighter there to man the fire rig. He helped carry the guy into an air-conditioned trailer without moving him very much.

Basically, we stabilized him by keeping him super still and as comfortable as we could until EMS arrived. I rode with him about an hour and a half to the closest trauma center in Central Washington. He was conscious, which was lousy for him but reassuring for me. “You’re still talking to me,” I said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

One of the take-home points from a medical point of view is never try to remove something sticking out of someone when you’re out in the field. If it’s pushing against something vital, you could do a lot of damage, and if it’s up against a blood vessel, that vessel’s going to bleed uncontrollably.

We got to the trauma center and they took him to the OR. By the grace of friendships, somebody got his wife to the hospital. She was calmer than I think I would have been if my spouse had been hit by a rocket.

The full diagnostic story: The rocket bouncing off his forehead gave him a small skull fracture and slight concussion. That was no big deal. But picture this: The rocket only went through his belly fat. It didn’t hit any of his abdominal organs! I still think this is absolutely amazing. If he had been leaning forward in his lawn chair even a few inches, the rocket would’ve gone through his head and that would’ve been all they wrote.

He stayed in the hospital for a couple of days. I never saw him again, but I received follow-up from the surgeon. And I read the paper the next day. Let me tell you, in Central Washington, this is pretty big news.

It wasn’t the way I’d planned my morning. But you just can’t predict that kind of thing. I don’t know, maybe spiritually or karma wise, I was meant to show up about 90 seconds after he’d been hit. The only emergency physician at the whole event, just by chance. My work blesses me with a certain skill set. I know when to really worry, how to go about keeping somebody safe until you can get them to the ED. It’s something I thank my stars for every single day.

As I said to the guy on the way to the hospital: “Well, it’s not your lucky day, but it sure as heck could have been a whole lot unluckier.”

Stephen Anderson, MD, is an emergency medicine physician in Auburn, Washington and is affiliated with MultiCare Auburn Medical Center.

A version of this article first appeared on Medscape.com.